


Honey and Flies

by glasslogic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creature Sam, Dubious Consent, Hunter Dean, Hurt Sam, M/M, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasslogic/pseuds/glasslogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College students are turning up dead without a mark, and Dean heads west to investigate after the son of a friend is added to the growing list. But “dead” in this case may be a slight exaggeration. Dean finding the recently deceased chatting up a bartender on the wrong side of the tracks is just his first step into a mystery with roots much closer to home than he ever could have imagined, where all of the answers are confusing and the revelations just make things so much worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and Flies

 

  


** Section One **

  
The air was thick and humid, the music was grating, the tables were sticky and the beer was flat. White flakes of something were floating in his glass, and he could only hope that it was soap residue -- but the girl pressed up against his side was curved in all the right places and it wasn’t like he was there for the ambiance anyway. Dean flipped his wallet open under the table and took another look at the poorly copied photo he had tucked there, then glanced over at a man sitting a few tables away at the bar. Grow the hair out a little, add a year or two and about half a foot, some muscle... he was still pretty sure it was the same guy.  
  
Which should have been freaking impossible.  
  
Dean downed the last of the beer and signaled for another. A waitress slid one onto the table almost before he could put his hand down. Everything else about the place might suck, but the service was  _fantastic_. Beside him, Lila-Laura-Lily- _whatever_  was still distracted with what was happening on her phone. As she had been for the last forty minutes -- it was one of the things that had attracted Dean to her in the first place. Though she was possibly not quite distracted enough.  
  
“I can see why you’d like him, nice shoulders,” his date said as she slipped her phone into her purse. She gazed speculatively across the bar to where the object of Dean’s attentions was poking aimlessly at a basket of stale pretzels. At least Dean assumed they were stale, the ones they had been served certainly were. “So... what am I, cover?”  
  
Dean draped an arm around her shoulders. “What are you talking about? I thought we were just spending some nice time together, letting you get all of your whatever done before we slipped back to my motel room and got to know each other a little more  _personally_.”  
  
Lila-Laura-Lily, maybe Lena?-- gave Dean a skeptical look. “Fine,” she challenged. “Let’s go. Right now.”  
  
“Ah,  _now_  now? Don’t you want to catch the end of the game first?” Lila-Laura-something-or-other glanced at the grimy screen over the bar playing a recap of something happening in what Dean suspected was Ecuador, but he couldn’t really be certain. His plan had been to find the guy -- if he existed -- then follow him back to wherever he was staying and... figure out what the hell was going on. Spotting his elusive target slipping into the bar in the first place had been a miracle, and Lily-Lila-Lauren had been a godsend when Dean had come across her sitting on the hood of her car in the parking lot bitching loudly on her phone about “Eddie” who had stood her up for the last fucking time. Single loners attracted more attention than an anonymous couple, no matter what the venue was, and she had been agreeable to being picked up. Besides, she had a certain sparkle in her dark eyes that made Dean think an evening would be worth the price of admission. Too bad he couldn’t keep his mind focused on being entertaining enough to keep her interest. And he definitely couldn’t leave the bar yet.  
  
“Are you seriously gonna tell me that’s your favorite team?” she asked.  
  
“Maybe?” Dean tried in a hopeful voice.  
  
She rolled her eyes, then shrugged off his arm and slid out of the booth. “Look, Tim, or whatever your name is,” Dean supposed he deserved that, “you seem like a nice enough guy, and I like the way you fill your jeans, but I’m not really up to sitting on my ass all night keeping you company while you ogle other men. So, either  _we’re_  going, or  _I’m_  going. Which is it?”  
  
Dean took another furtive look at the target and noted that he attracted the attention of the bartender and seemed to be trying to chat her up.  
  
“ _Todd_.” Laura-whatever snapped her fingers in front of his face.  
  
“Sorry, yeah. I’m not ready to go yet,” he answered distractedly. Past her hip Dean could see the bartender flip her long hair over one shoulder and take a step back. She looked almost... scared.  
  
Lila took a deep breath, then just kind of shook her head and walked off. Dean wasn’t exactly crying into his beer about it -- until he realized that instead of storming out the front door she was making a beeline for the true focus of the evening’s outing. He watched just long enough to see her tap his target on the shoulder while pointing back in Dean’s direction, then swore and turned as casually as he could back to his half empty glass. He stared resolutely at the really questionable band playing live at the other end of the bar until someone cleared their throat only a couple of feet from his elbow and Dean had no plausible way to avoid confrontation. He reluctantly looked up and felt instantly trapped by the clearest hazel eyes he could ever remember seeing. He could almost  _feel_  his brain grind to a halt.  
  
“Hey, is anyone sitting here?” the target of his hunt asked with a smile, gesturing at the chair across from Dean.  
  
“No, no -- go ahead,” Dean managed after an awkward pause that made the man’s grin grow even broader. He slid into the empty chair.  
  
“I’m Sam.”  
  
Dean barely managed to bite back his instinctive response of “I know.” What was  _wrong_  with him? The guy was good-looking, but not  _that_  good-looking, and he was the focus of a  _case_. “I’m, uh--” Was it _possible_  to even  _have_  eyes that...  
  
“You are...” Sam echoed expectantly. His eyes, that Dean had been  _staring into_  for who knew how long, were sparkling with good humor, and something... more predatory, that made Dean’s libido sit up and take notice. He had to scramble to pick up the conversation.  
  
“Dean, I mean...” Fuck. “Dean.”  
  
“It’s nice to meet you, Dean. Come here often?”  
  
Dean had the strong suspicion he was being made fun of, but couldn’t think well enough to focus on why. And that was wrong too, it was wrong because... callused, warm, fingers brushed the back of his hand, and it felt like an electrical current straight to his dick. The leg that slid against his own under the table destroyed what was left of his concentration and Dean couldn’t do anything but stare. He had gone for a few guys in his time, more out of curiosity and a sense of adventure than anything, but he would have gone for a lot more if any of them had affected him like Sam did. And that was wrong because... because... the curve of Sam’s lips looked sinfully inviting and possibilities were starting to arrange themselves vividly in Dean’s imagination. He wondered what those lips would look like sticky and swollen and wrapped around his cock. Felt sure he could find out.  
  
“Let’s get out of here,” Sam said, as if following the thought. “Do you have a place?”  
  
Dean nodded dumbly and stumbled out of his chair. Sam tossed a few bills on the table and they made their way out to the parking lot. The cold air seemed to clear his head a little, and Dean frowned as the pornographic montage in his head bowed a little to rational thought. He started to speak, but Sam brushed against him and his scent was spicy, intoxicating, and  _everywhere_. Dean wanted to roll in it. Naked, with a lot of lube, and possibly some handcuffs.  
  
“Which one is yours?” Sam asked, motioning towards the few cars parked in the dusty lot. Dean had to think about it for a second.  
  
It was a good thing for public safety that the motel was only a couple of blocks away. Dean was painfully aware of Sam’s presence and kept having to force his eyes back on the road. He would have been perfectly happy to work off whatever was going on between them on the Impala’s leather interior, but Sam seemed to have other ideas. He had fished the car keys out of Dean’s pocket and the sight of them in someone else’s hand had sparked enough clarity for Dean to snatch them back and slide behind the wheel. Sam driving might have been a good idea after all though, because Dean had no idea what the speed limit was and was only vaguely aware of traffic. All his attention was drawn to the heated place on his thigh where one of Sam’s hands was resting.  
  
Somehow he managed to find the motel and park without wrecking the Impala. Getting the key into the lock on the door was an adventure in itself, but eventually they stumbled into the room together and Dean kicked the door shut behind them. He impatiently pulled his t-shirt over his head and reached out to grab hold of Sam’s, but Sam caught his hands and pushed them back to Dean’s sides. Dean’s frustration was somewhat mollified when Sam stepped in close with the movement, pushing him back until his legs hit the bed unexpectedly and he fell, pulling Sam down with him onto the mattress.  
  
The gun tucked into its holster in the back of Dean’s jeans dug deep into his skin, and along with the unexpected pain, a trickle of unease ran up his spine as something clamored distantly for attention in the back of his mind. He squirmed to pull the gun free, grabbing the wallet from his back pocket too for good measure, and dropped both carelessly onto the bedside table, ignoring when the wallet skidded off and fell to the cheap carpet below. With the source of distracting irritation dealt with the distant sense of alarm receded. Dean reached up to tangle his hands in Sam’s dark hair and pull him down to taste... everything. All at once if possible. Sam wasn’t as cooperative as Dean wanted though, resisting his intentions and staring off to the side. Exasperated, Dean followed his gaze to the gun.  
  
“I hang out in rough places, it’s for protection,” Dean mumbled, trying to muster enough coherency to handle the situation and get Sam back on track. He wanted to touch, needed to  _be_  touched.  
  
“Better safe than sorry?” Sam’s mouth curved into a smile, but the darkness in his eyes didn’t seem like passion to Dean. He frowned and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Sam leaned in and distracted him, pressing a kiss beside Dean’s mouth with lips that felt fever warm and ignited an answering heat that flushed Dean’s skin and pulled a low groan from his chest. He couldn’t remember if he had ever been this turned on by  _anyone_  before and it felt  _fantastic_  -- but also wrong, too much feeling for too little action. There was something  _wrong_. He was willing to ignore that persistent voice for another kiss though, a  _real_  one this time, and impatiently tried to lean up and claim Sam’s mouth. But Sam kept him pressed to the mattress with a hand on his shoulder, attention focused now on something down at the floor beside the bed. His expression was odd. The fog in Dean’s mind lifted a little more and he lay still, blinking at Sam in bemusement.  
  
Sam leaned down and picked Dean’s open wallet up from the floor. “Is this a picture of me?”  
  
“Um...” No good lies came to mind, Dean’s thoughts still spinning like agitated sand. “Yeah. I got it from--" Bobby. Bobby and his “little favor.” Conversations flashed through Dean’s mind, images from the past week, details of his hunt. The bar, the girl, the case,  _Sam_. Shit. The sand settled into place and seared into coherent thought. Dean kicked Sam with both feet so that he was thrown from the bed and staggered into the dresser. At the same time Dean grabbed his gun with one hand and scrubbed furiously at his face with the other where Sam’s lips had touched him.  
  
“Don’t you fucking move!”  
  
Sam stood back up, staring intently at Dean. A wall of heat and lust  _slammed_  into him, sinking into his skin as though he had been standing in the dark and the sun had just risen. He felt his focus start to crumble, his entire body aching to move closer, forget everything else and just  _feel_... He took a half step forward, then caught himself and bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood. Like before, pain sliced through the growing haze and his awareness of what was going on made it easier to shove aside the  _whatever_.  
  
“What the hell  _are_  you?” Dean demanded, motioning towards the bathroom with the gun.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing. Dean felt the pressure increase, shoved it aside easily -- almost no effort at all with his growing rage and the pain of deliberately raking the wound in his mouth with his tongue.  
  
“You know what I mean, and if you don’t knock that shit off  _right now_  I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in you.” He moved to stand between Sam and the door, cutting off any escape.  
  
“In a hotel room surrounded by who knows how many people?” Sam asked skeptically.  
  
Dean’s own expression was grimly satisfied. “Not even going to try denying it? And it’s a motel, jackass, learn the difference.” He took a few steps forward, watching satisfied as Sam backed up in response, keeping about six feet between them.  
  
“Still a lot of witnesses to a shooting,” Sam suggested, something that might have been the first edge of panic coloring his voice.  
  
Dean’s smile was thin. “I’ll ask one more time,  _what are you_?”  
  
Sam ignored the question. “Look,” he tried, “this was all just a mistake. Let me go and you’ll never see me again.”  
  
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The sudden flurry of movement took Sam off guard. Before he could react Dean had him shoved in the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Dean propped a straight-backed chair under the handle and Sam-the- _whatever_  was as secured as he could be in the circumstances.  
  
“Let me out!” The thin wood did almost nothing to muffle Sam’s voice and the door shuddered as he slammed his fists against it.  
  
Dean snorted. “I don’t think so. We’ve got some talking to do, and I like you better in a box.”  
  
“Fuck you!” Another angry  _thump_.  
  
“Almost,” Dean growled. “We’re going to chat about  _that_ , too. And stop it with the door, we can’t talk over the racket.”  
  
The banging stopped abruptly. “Who the hell  _are_  you? Why do you have a picture of me?”  
  
Dean leaned against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed and expression grim. “How about you start answering my questions first?”  
  
“One for one?”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, the effort completely lost on Sam who couldn’t see him, but it made Dean feel better. “Fine. What are you?”  
  
He could almost  _hear_  the shrug in Sam’s reply. “I’m an incubus. It’s, uh, like a kind of... sex demon.” The last two words trailed off into what sounded almost like embarrassment.  
  
Not that it mattered.  
  
Dean snorted. “No, you aren’t.”  
  
“You’re so smart, what the hell do you think I am?”  
  
“Do you even know what an incubus  _is_? It’s a wrinkly old grey boogey monster that uses its mojo to make people think it looks like whoever it wants to look, and then whammies them into being mind-fucked slaves. For  _fun_. It doesn’t  _feed_  off them, it’s just a pure sadistic predator. They live off hamburgers like the rest of us. Maybe you’re some kind of witch, or something, but you’re definitely  _not_  an incubus.”  
  
“A  _witch_?” Sam asked incredulously. “I bet you believe in Santa Claus too.”  
  
“Which one of us thinks they’re a  _sex demon_?” Dean snapped back. “You think you can be an incubus, but  _witches_  -- those you don’t believe in.”  
  
The pause this time was more considered. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”  
  
“I guess not a lot of time for things like that when you’re busy killing people and scouting out your next meal,” Dean growled.  
  
Sam ignored the comment. “Where did you get my picture? Why were you looking for me?”  
  
“I got it from Bobby, you remember your foster-dad, right? The guy who’s worried  _sick_  about you? You stopped calling, the local papers said you and your girlfriend washed up dead on a lakeshore after a storm. But then the morgue couldn’t seem to find your corpse and guys like Bobby and me always find that worth an eyebrow raise or two. We like to know our loved ones are good and cremated before we write them off. He couldn’t come himself, but I owed him a favor so he sent me to find out what the hell had happened. I was poking around your apartment and that druggie neighbor of yours -- Stan, Dan--"  
  
“--Han,” Sam supplied in a subdued voice.  
  
“Yeah, whatever. He swore up and down he had seen you alive in a bar out here a few days after the drowning but hadn’t managed to speak to you before you vanished into the crowd. It seemed like a long shot, but I owed your dad so I flashed your photo around and voila! People said you looked familiar, so I trolled the area for a couple of nights and happened to catch your overgrown ass slinking into that rat trap this evening.”  
  
“What  _are_  you?!”  
  
“I’m a hunter.”  
  
“A  _hunter_?” Sam asked in a confused voice.  
  
“Take a look in the mirror and figure it out,” Dean snapped, angry and heartsick over what he was going to tell Bobby. It would have been better all around if Sam had just been dead -- and maybe that was all he would have to say. Sam was dead. The morgue had just been a mix up, but now it was taken care of. It would be true soon enough anyway.  
  
“I’m not hurting anyone,” Sam protested. “What I do -- they’re fine afterwards. I’m harmless, I don’t--"  
  
“Pull the other one,” Dean said scornfully. “I do this for a living, you think I don’t check out the local area when I come to a new town? People are dying around here. Young people, who like to party and hang out and probably aren’t too careful when someone hot and friendly offers to take them home for a few hours. And there are no marks on the body, and there is no cause of death. Just corpses and broken lives. Does that sound  _harmless_  to you? Because if it does, I have to say they’re teaching a whole different way of looking at the world at that fancy university of yours. I was going to check out all these mysterious deaths after I figured out what the hell was going on with Bobby’s missing foster kid, but looks like I managed to nail two birds with one stone on this one.”  
  
“I don’t  _kill_  people! I barely--“ Sam cut himself off, like he could tell that his words were falling on deaf ears. He switched direction. “What are you going to do with me?”  
  
“What do you  _think_  I’m going to do?”  
  
“What are you going to tell my  _dad_?” Sam hissed.  
  
“Foster dad,” Dean growled back. Something that still rankled since he felt like he had practically grown up in Bobby’s house, and in all that time no toy, no picture, no  _clue_  had indicated Bobby had a  _kid_. Though to be fair, Bobby admitted his sister had done most of the raising. He didn’t want his  _son_  involved in the  _business_  and didn’t think he could keep him out of it if he lived in the middle of it. But then the sister had died and Sam had come back for a few short months before it was time to leave for college. By then Dean had been dealing with his own father’s death and out on his own -- more than a few months were passing between visits to Bobby’s. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, except that Sam was clearly a big deal to Bobby, and Dean had just... never known. It felt like something he  _should_  have known. “And I’m not going to tell Bobby a damn thing except that the papers got it right.”  
  
Absolute silence from inside the bathroom. Then, “Are you just going to shoot me through the door?”  
  
“That eager to get it over with?”  
  
“No, I just... you’re all ‘save the people,’ and there’s an awful lot of sleeping people on the other side of some very thin walls if you miss. What does your  _job_  description say about them?”  
  
Dean swore under his breath. “It says if you don’t make this harder than it has to be I’ll buy you some ice cream before we... get it over with.”  
  
“By ‘it’ you mean my life.”  
  
“You’re a monster, you don’t  _get_  a life. Or an unlife, or whatever the hell you’re enjoying right now.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Sam did not sound persuaded by the argument. “Aren’t you afraid that when you open this door I’m going to enspell you again?”  
  
Dean winced at the memory. Just  _thinking_  about how Sam had looked above him on the bed was enough to make his dick take renewed interest. He hoped the icy shower he planned to take after he was done with Sam would wash the rest of the  _whatever_  out of his system, because this shit was the last thing he needed. “You didn’t do such a hot job of that the last time you tried it. I know what you’re doing now, and your presto-enchanto crap won’t work on me again. If it makes you feel better, I promise it will be fast.” Assuming bullets would even work on whatever Sam was, because if they didn’t it might be one long-ass night after all.  
  
Sam’s answer was another loud thump, but this time not on the door.  
  
“Are you hitting the wall?” Dean asked with a frown.  
  
“HELP!” Sam yelled instead of a response. “HELP! I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME!” From the uproarious banging and thudding suddenly coming from inside the bathroom, Dean thought Sam was maybe trying to kick through the wall. He lunged for the door and pulled the chair away, but the handle wouldn’t turn. Locked from the inside.  
  
“HELP! HELP ME! GET ME OUT OF HERE.”  
  
Someone on the other side of the wall started banging back. “SHUT UP OR I’LL CALL THE MANAGER.”  
  
“DO THAT!” Sam screamed back. “AND THE COPS! HELP!”  
  
Kicking through a wall would have been infinitely easier to deal with than witnesses. Shit. Dean twisted the handle violently as Sam kept up his barrage of banging and screaming. Something snapped inside the mechanism, but it remained stubbornly intact. Frantic knocking started on the front door just as Dean pulled back his leg to kick in the bathroom one. He aimed the first kick at the lock area. The door held firm, but the frame splintered. Before he could kick it a second time the sounds of a key at the front door brought his swearing to an all-new height. He stepped back and tucked the gun away in the back of his jeans again. Without the holster it was in danger of sliding into his pants, but it was worlds better than having it in hand with witnesses.  
  
He had just dropped his shirt back down when the front door flew open and a skinny man with tousled hair and an irate expression stormed in. Behind him Dean could see at least five or six people in various states of dress and equally pissed expressions standing around outside the door.  
  
“What in God’s name is going on in here?!” The man, presumably the night manager, demanded.  
  
Before Dean could come up with  _something_ , there was a rattle and then a cracking sound as Sam pried the bathroom door out of the shattered frame. He gave Dean a wary look and went to stand next to the motel manager.  
  
“Uh,” Dean squinted to read the manager’s nametag. “Justin? Look, we’re sorry about the upset. It’s my brother, he’s, um--"  
  
“Claustrophobic,” Sam offered, glaring at Dean over Justin’s shoulder. Dean had no idea why Sam was playing along, but presumed that people-eating monsters who were supposed to be dead were as interested in avoiding police attention as he was.  
  
“He said to call the  _cops_!” Justin-the-night-manager snarled. “And you had better believe they are on their way after all this! It’s four in the morning! Do you have  _any_  idea how many people you woke up?!”  
  
The crowd outside the door was growing. Dean was certainly  _starting_  to get a pretty good idea of how many people Sam had managed to disturb. He gritted his teeth. “Sorry, the door got stuck and he... panicked.”  
  
Justin turned to face Sam, who quickly composed his glare into an expression of contrition.  
  
“Is that true?” Justin demanded.  
  
“It’s true. I--"  
  
“--was locked in a truck for a week when he was a kid. Bad memories,” Dean supplied.  
  
“It was traumatic,” Sam agreed, expression somewhat strained. “Some psycho with a gun kidnapped me. Fortunately, some nice people rescued me just in time.”  
  
Justin glanced between the two of them, looking highly suspicious. “I don’t care  _what_  happened when who was a kid. You guys have woken up half this hotel and you’ve got some explaining to do when the police get here.”  
  
“The cops? Awww, c’mon. We don’t really need them.” Dean gave Justin an encouraging smile. “Everything is fine now. Tell you what, me and my  _brother_  will just leave instead. Everyone can go back to sleep, and we can all just get on with our evenings--"  
  
“Not a chance,” Justin said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I called, they’re on their way, you can try and sell them whatever you want. And I hope you know you’re paying for that door!”  
  
“Excuse me,” Sam tapped Justin on the shoulder. “You can keep him for collateral, but after what happened in the bathroom... I really feel like the walls are closing in. I have to get some air or I might start panicking again.” He didn’t wait for permission, just slipped around the end of the bed and headed for the door.  
  
“Hey!” Dean objected, starting to follow.  
  
Justin stepped firmly in front of him. “One of you is staying in this room and explaining this to the police!”  
  
“I’m asking nicely, but you need to get out of my way,” Dean said tightly.  
  
“You can just sit on the edge of the counter and wait,” Justin snapped.  
  
Dean gave the doorway another frustrated look, then evaded Justin by simply jumping up onto the bed and back to the floor on the other side, scooping up his wallet in the process.  
  
“Get back here!” Justin yelled behind him. The crowd outside the room had started to disperse and the few people still there gave him some truly dirty looks, but Sam was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Where did he go?” Dean demanded. He got a few halfhearted gestures in different directions, and then heard the wail of a siren from far down the street. Dean raked a hand through his hair in frustration, and then ran for the Impala -- which he was highly annoyed to find parked haphazardly across three spots. From the sparse recollections he had of arriving he supposed he should just be grateful she wasn’t parked in a light pole. Dean scanned the parking lot one last time as he pulled out, but Sam was nowhere to be seen.  
  


~~~~~

  
“So he isn’t dead, then.” Bobby’s voice was somber. Dean hated having to tell him the news about Sam, but he had already dragged it out for three days. He hadn’t been able to find Sam again, and he couldn’t keep delaying. His hopes of handing Bobby a tidy confirmation of death didn’t seem likely to happen in the immediate future, so he had finally just picked up the phone and 'fessed up. He wanted Bobby’s advice anyway.  
  
“Bobby I’m... sorry. I wanted to take care of it and--“  
  
“You mean kill him,” Bobby surmised in a flat voice.  
  
Dean sat down on the bed, ignoring the squeak of springs in the lumpy mattress. “You sent me out here to make sure he was dead. Those were your exact words! ‘They say he’s dead, I want you to go and make sure.’ So, I don’t know what the heck you thought was going on, but surprise! He’s alive. Or... something. They definitely had him in the morgue and I definitely have a coroner’s preliminary report that says cause of death was drowning. There are... pictures.” Dean flipped the file beside him open. “He looks pretty convincingly dead in these shots, but they didn’t get an autopsy before he apparently checked himself out. I don’t know what you want me to say here, Bobby.  _He_  claims to be a sex demon.”  
  
“An incubus?” Dean could hear Bobby’s frown a thousand miles away. “That’s impossible, I watched that kid grow up. His dad put him in my arms before he could even  _walk_. He was born human. You don’t just turn into a damn incubus!”  
  
“I told him that!”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“Not much. Mostly he whined at me. I... he’s feeding on humans, Bobby. He died. He  _isn’t_  that kid anymore.”  
  
“I know that,” Bobby growled. “You hear me complaining about you doing your damn job? I asked you to go because I couldn’t leave the case I was on, and you were in the area. And I trust you.”  
  
Dean didn’t have anything to say to that. After a moment Bobby exhaled heavily. “All right. You think he’s responsible for those deaths you were talking about the other day? All those college kids?”  
  
“It’s not just college kids, and no.”  
  
“No?” Bobby sounded surprised. “Why not? Sounds like a fit to me. Sam feeds on people’s energy, these kids are dying without a mark on them and the timing seems to fit. Why ' _no'_?”  
  
“Because it  _doesn’t_  fit,” Dean sighed, not happy about the collapse of his own favorite theory, but willing to admit mistakes if they could help him keep the body count down. “I couldn’t find Sam, so I’ve been doing other research in the daytime to try and narrow down his hunting ground. There are about twenty deaths that fit the pattern over the last eight months, but Sam  _couldn’t_  have been responsible for most of them. He only went missing about six weeks ago; the pattern started a long time before that.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t responsible,” Bobby said reluctantly. “Maybe his death was staged, maybe he’s been like this for a long time. If he  _looks_  human... he could have been like this for  _years_ , Dean!” His voice lowered. “He could have been lying to me for years.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Dean disagreed, “and that’s not just to make you feel better either. He seems kind of... uncomfortable with it. I dug through everything I could find on him, even got my hands on his class schedules and attendance records for the past few months. He  _couldn’t_  have been responsible for most of these murders, not if he was sitting in a lecture hall with thirty or forty of his nearest and dearest fellow academics! I also interviewed a bunch of his friends, claimed I was doing a piece for the paper, and they all thought Sam was a great guy. Friendly, dependable, in love with his girlfriend. How many monsters do you know who can keep up an act like that for years?”  
  
“Maybe he’s just that good at blending in,” Bobby said gruffly. “Lost control, killed the girl, and had to fake his own death to cover it up. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve seen something like that. As for the deaths -- whatever he is, maybe there’s more than one of them hunting the area?”  
  
“You said he’s a bright guy. So he fakes his death and then stays in the  _same town_? Actually,” Dean frowned, “staying in the area doesn’t make any sense no matter  _what_  happened. Why the hell would he stay here where he could be recognized?”  
  
“Ask him when you find him.”  
  
“When I find him, Bobby, I don’t think there’s going to be a lot of time for conversation.”  
  
“When it happens, I just want to know that it’s done. No details,” Bobby’s voice was heavy with pain and Dean had to remind himself again that this was practically Bobby’s  _son_  he was talking about killing. Even if he was already dead. Or undead. Whatever.  
  
Which brought Dean back to why he had finally decided to call Bobby in the first place. “Have you ever heard of any kind of an undead monster that feeds on sex?”  
  
“Nope. Any more easy questions?”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“No charge.” An awkward pause. “So, uh, how  _did_  you figure out what he does?”  
  
Dean closed his eyes. He’d been really hoping Bobby wouldn’t ask. “How do you  _think_?”  
  
“You said you followed him into a bar and saw him stalking some chick. You see him lay the whammy on her?” Bobby asked hopefully.  
  
“I said I saw him try to pick up some chick, and she turned him down flat.  _She_  wasn’t the one that got whammied, and a good thing too, since he might have managed to kill her.”  
  
Bobby’s voice was a little strangled sounding when he spoke again. “So, uh... You and he...”  
  
“Jesus, Bobby. A little slap and tickle with your undead foster kid isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done for a hunt. Besides, he barely got my shirt off before I came to my senses,” Dean had a visceral memory of the heat of Sam’s body as he had ripped his  _own_  shirt off, desperate to get as much of Sam’s touch as possible on every square inch of skin. He cringed. The flashes weren’t as frequent as they had been, but Dean couldn’t  _wait_  until he could think about Sam and not have to deal with an impulsive desire to give him a tongue bath.  
  
“That’s... I’m glad you’re okay, Dean. I uh, have supper burning. Gotta go.”  
  
“Are you all right, Bobby?” Dean asked suspiciously.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Later.”  
  
The dial tone rang in his ear a second later. Dean looked at his phone in surprise, but then shrugged and dropped it on the mattress. Bobby being a little weird was just  _Bobby_ , and he had more important things to worry about. Like finding Sam.  
  


~~~~~

  
Five more days brought Dean nothing more than endless hours doing research and investigation, and long nights cruising dark streets and shady dives. There was no connection he could find between the victims other than their general age and social habits, and despite diligent searching -- no hint of Sam. By the end of the week Dean had decided that either Sam had moved on, or he had gone to ground so deep that looking for him was wasting time. But because it was for Bobby, and there was a substantial and growing body count that he couldn’t completely rule Sam out of causing, he gave it a second week. He was six days into it and reluctantly contemplating a third when he finally,  _finally_  caught a break.  
  
It was three in the morning and the last bar he had planned to check was tossing out its patrons. The place was a few cuts above what he had originally been targeting as likely places for Sam to be frequenting, if he was even hunting in bars anymore, but the long nights of zilch had forced Dean to expand his field. As he cruised slowly by the parking lot band members were loading instruments into trunks, two cabbies were leaning against their cars and casually chatting while waiting for fares, college kids laughed and leaned against each other as they fumbled for keys they had no business using or staggered off down the sidewalk to walk back to wherever they slept... and in one shady corner a suspiciously familiar figure was talking to a woman in a skirt so short Dean could see the curve of her ass even from the street.  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
He couldn’t park at the bar without attracting attention, so Dean hurriedly pulled into an apartment complex across the street and then crossed the road on foot. He cut through the scraggly trees of the lot beside the bar and took the opportunity to crouch behind some nearby bushes. He wanted to see Sam in action, to have proof of what he was doing to his victims -- before he had to intervene.  
  
“So, do you, ah... want to go back to your place?” Sam was asking as Dean settled into place.  
  
The woman shifted, rubbing her hands up her bare arms and glancing over her shoulder as if making sure her friends were still in sight. “Look, I don’t think this is a good idea, you know? You seem like a nice guy and all, but... I’m just not comfortable. Maybe if I see you here again we can get to know each other a little better?”  
  
Dean was dumbfounded. When Sam had turned the charm on him it was been all he had been able to do to remember his  _name_ , and this woman was composing polite rejections?  
  
“Are you going to be here tomorrow night?” Sam asked hopefully, sounded more like a plaintive kid than a skilled seducer to Dean’s calculating ear.  
  
She shifted again, edgy and uncomfortable. “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we have other plans.”  
  
“If you tell me when you might be back--“ he began.  
  
“Look,” she interrupted, “just no, okay? I tried to be nice, but you’re kind of creeping me out, I mean...“ She trailed off, but Sam just nodded. He didn’t seem surprised by her attitude towards him.  
  
“It’s okay. Thanks for the drink.”  
  
That seemed to be more of the response the girl was looking for. She flashed him a weak smile and then fled back to her friends as fast as her high heels could take her. Dean watched, bemused, remembering another woman and another rejection. Maybe Sam wasn’t the great predator Dean had thought him to be after all.  
  
Sam stood in silence for a few minutes, arms crossed and head bowed. “Is it you?”  
  
Dean crouched frozen in place, not even daring to breath.  
  
“I know you’re there. Dean? I can feel... people. You’ve been sitting in that bush for at least the last five minutes.”  
  
“’People’ or ‘dinner’?” Dean asked harshly as he stood and brushed himself off.  
  
Sam made no effort to move. “Does it matter? Do you care? After all, I’m just another one of your freaking monsters, put a bullet in my head and my body in a fire,” his voice was thick with bitterness.  
  
“I thought you didn’t know about hunters.”  
  
Sam actually looked up at that. The gun in Dean’s hand caught his attention, but then he set his jaw and looked up resolutely.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“That’s more what I was expecting. Let’s go for a walk.” Sam just nodded jerkily and for a few minutes they trudged deeper into the thin wood and scraggly overgrowth. At the back of the lot the shadows were deep and it backed up to a chain link fence separating it from some kind of small appliance scrap yard. Dean was satisfied they were alone and unlikely to be spotted by any passing traffic. “Stop.”  
  
Sam did and turned to face him, arms still crossed tightly and expression pinched. Dean took a minute to study his face by the light of the moon shining overhead. Two weeks didn’t seem like enough time to cause the changes he saw there. Sam looked gaunt and drawn, the shadows around his eyes too deep to be just an effect of the light. At the bar where Dean had first seen him and later in the motel, there had been nothing physically to set Sam apart from the other patrons. Nothing that said at a glance that he was anything other than the twenty-something college student he had been before death. Now he looked more like the morgue photos. Maybe his mojo was working, because otherwise Dean was shocked he had gotten even as far as he did with the woman who had fled from him in the parking lot.  
  
“Maybe this is for the best.” Sam’s shoulders slumped and he looked resigned.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “You, that--" He nodded towards the gun. “Like you said, I’m a monster.”  
  
Dean felt the oddest sense of irritation. The monsters weren’t supposed to  _want_  to die. “Too bad you weren’t feeling so cooperative  _before_  I spent two freaking weeks hunting you down again!”  
  
“Sorry.” He actually almost sounded like he really was. Sam glanced around at the ground, and then sat down on the bare dirt against the fence. He looked up and caught Dean’s expression. “I’d ask if you mind, but I don’t really care. What are you going to do, shoot me?” The watery smile wasn’t happy, but it was pretty obvious he wasn’t planning to run. “Whatever you’re going to do you can do as easily with me down here as up there.”  
  
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Standing too hard?” Sam’s demeanor was throwing him off his game.  
  
“Yes,” Sam replied simply. “Is this going to take long?”  
  
“What the hell do you think I’m going to do with a gun in the middle of downtown?” Dean asked with great annoyance. His plan had been to trail Sam and his victim back to wherever he was heading with her, intervene as needed once he saw Sam in action, save the girl, kill the monster, and be out of town before dawn. Sam calling him out of the bushes hadn’t been in the cards, and with no clean way to drag Sam across the street and stuff him in the trunk, now he was making it up as he went along. The area wasn’t deserted enough that a gunshot wouldn’t catch half a dozen people’s immediate attention. Hell, the bar parking lot only yards away was still crawling with stragglers and staff heading home. Besides, he still didn’t even know if a bullet would kill Sam. He needed privacy, and time, and--  
  
“I’ve heard you can use a coke bottle as a silencer,” Sam offered. He fished one out of the random collection of odd litter that had accumulated against the bottom of the fence and held it out.  
  
Dean glared. “A silencer? Those are only  _silent_  in movies. The only difference would be that fewer people sleeping in the apartment building  _across the street_  would be clued in. Not exactly stealthy, you know?” As if to demonstrate his point, laughter and catcalls drifted to their ears from the dissipating patrons still trying to sort themselves into cars in the parking lot.  
  
Sam let the bottle fall to the ground. “I don’t know much about guns. Or apparently anything else. Are we going somewhere else then?”  
  
“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean demanded.  
  
It was Sam’s turn to glare, the expression the most animated one Dean had seen since cornering him. “You want to know what the fuck is wrong with  _me_?  _Really_? I was a fucking  _college student_ , Dean. I had a life, a fiancée, and things were looking pretty damn good. Then I went to a party where some creepy jackass molested me, and I wake up in the  _fucking morgue_  next to the corpse of the woman I wanted to spend my life with, and now apparently I’m some kind of  _God-knows-what_  that feeds on sex. With strangers. The girl I wanted to marry is  _dead_  and I’m screwing strangers in dark alleys to  _survive_! I can’t even  _find_  the bastard who did this to me, and now some random asshole runs me down, says  _I’m_  the bad guy, and wants to put a bullet in me! So you know what? Fine. I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to be fighting with you for. I’m  _dead_  and you have  _no idea_  what that feels like from in here. You want to put me down? Go for it.”  
  
Awkward silence hung in the air. Sam was staring resolutely back at the ground between his shoes, like the rant had extinguished what little fire he had managed to find, and Dean wasn’t sure  _what_  to say. He didn’t like it when the monsters showed a human side, so he neatly circumvented any moral quandaries by cutting to the most relevant point of Sam’s little blow-up.  
  
“You know who did this to you?”  
  
Sam nodded. “It’s not just one person, I mean -- one person did this to me, but there’s a whole group of them. I see them sometimes,” Sam raised his head a little and glanced warily back towards the street, “following me, watching me. I won’t do what they want, I’m trying  _so hard_  to not do what they want, and to find them. I want them to pay for what they did to Jessica, and to  _me_ , and to  _everyone else_  they’ve killed! But they always see me coming, and it’s so hard to just  _think_  anymore. I can  _feel_  myself falling apart inside...” His voice trailed off and his hands tightened into fists so hard that Dean could see the hard peaks of his knuckles blanched against the skin.  
  
Dean swore internally. The monsters weren’t supposed to be human. And they  _definitely_  weren’t supposed to be sad, and lonely, and pathetic. In Sam’s profile Dean could see not just the killer he had been stalking, or the man he had wanted naked more than he had wanted  _air_ , but for the first time he really looked at Sam and saw Bobby’s son -- a guy not that far off from his own age who was as much a victim of the supernatural as anyone Dean had ever met.  
  
Shit.  
  
He ruthlessly drowned his inner girl by reminding himself that Sam had information that could lead him to a whole  _nest_  of the whatever-they-were, and that was going to be far more expedient towards saving lives than busting his ass spinning in circles for the next six months while the bodies racked up.  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
Sam grabbed the chain link fence and hauled himself to his feet. It took him a minute or two.  
  
“What is  _wrong_  with you?”  
  
“Didn’t you already ask me that?”  
  
“Yeah, but then I was pissed. Now I actually want to know,” Dean snapped.  
  
Sam shrugged gracelessly. “I’m tired. No reserves left. Haven’t you ever been starving before?”  
  
“You said you feed on sex?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Then what the hell are you starving for? This is a college town! You can’t find someone blitzed after a kegger and kind of, you know -- do your thing?”  
  
“Are you actually offering me suggestions on how to take advantage of people?” Sam asked incredulously.  
  
“No,” Dean scowled.  
  
“It  _sounded_  like it.”  
  
“I’m just trying to figure out why, if you are  _starving_  so badly you can’t  _think_ , you weren’t doing it on your own. Call it professional curiosity.”  
  
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I died, I didn’t lose all sense of morality. I’m not going to run out and  _rape_  someone!”  
  
Dean stepped in closer, fighting an urge to deck him. “What the hell do you call what you tried to do to me!”  
  
Sam had the grace to look slightly ashamed and mumbled something Dean didn’t quite catch.  
  
“You want to repeat that or should I just start hitting you?” Dean growled.  
  
Sam cleared his throat. “I said, you were watching me, and that chick said you wanted me. I just kinda... leaned on you. You were open to it and I didn’t want to be playing footsie all night when you just wanted to get off anyways and I was--“  
  
“Starving,” Dean finished with a hard look. “But I  _wasn’t_  into you like that, so I wasn’t  _open_  to anything, jackass.”  
  
“You were,” Sam insisted. “I didn’t mean like you were open to the idea, I mean  _you_  were open to it. To me. I can’t just mess with anyone off the street, there has to be something in them that I can... reach.”  
  
“So you’ve tried?”  
  
Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. Dean snorted derisively. “Of course you have, Mr. ‘I’m-so-moral.’”  
  
“You have no idea what this is like,” Sam repeated in a low, tight voice. “No fucking clue.”  
  
“No, I don’t. Because I’m human. Start walking.”  
  
“Have a nice, quiet spot all picked out for this?”  
  
“I’m not going to kill you. Yet. We have something to discuss first.”  
  
Sam turned so fast he almost lost his balance and had to grab a tree for support. “What the hell are you talking about? I think we’ve done enough  _discussing_.”  
  
“You want the people who did this to you dead or not? And I mean  _all the way_  dead, not this half-life crap you’ve got going on.”  
  
Sam’s eyes widened, like he hadn’t put the two and two together of what Dean did for a living and what his little revelation about there being a whole group of things like him out there would mean for a hunter. Dean had to assume starvation really  _was_  screwing with his brain because that shouldn’t have been a hard leap for a smart guy.  
  
“That’s what I thought. Come with me, keep your hands and your  _whatever_  to yourself, and we’ll see if we can’t bury the whole freaking lot of you guys together.”  
  
  


** Section Two **

  
Dean’s impromptu planning hadn’t included anything longer range than getting Sam into the Impala. Once that was done, he was deeply saddened to realize that there was really little choice but to take Sam back to his motel room with him. Again. At least it was a different motel this time. They needed to talk some more, and Dean didn’t trust Sam out of his sight. It wasn’t really the kind of conversation he wanted to have in a diner, and there was always the chance that someone spotting them would recognize Sam as a former-corpse. That kind of attention would really mess with his ability to maintain a low profile.  
  
Entering a motel room with Sam this time was an entirely different experience than the last time. Dean pointed to one of the vinyl chairs by the door. “Sit. Don’t move.” Sam slumped obediently into the chair while Dean went to rinse the rest of the dirt off his hands. When he came back Sam was still in the chair, but the morgue file Dean had filched was now spread over the table. He was staring at one of the file photos with an expression of such loss that Dean felt an answering stab of sympathy. Sam’s face smoothed out as soon as he noticed Dean watching him.  
  
“Don’t look at those,” Dean said brusquely. He gathered up the scattered papers back into their folder. Sam handed him the one he had been examining and Dean added it to the file without glancing at it. Dean didn’t need to see Jessica’s corpse laid out on cold steel again, and he was certain Sam didn’t either. He stuffed the folder into the top of his duffle bag and sank onto the bed. “Start talking. Begin with that party you told me about, the one with the guy.”  
  
Sam sighed. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. There’re a lot of parties after midterms. Some people only party the night after their tests and then go home, some people stay on campus and party all week. Jess’s family lives locally, and Bobby’s the only family I have. He said he wasn’t going to be around so... Jess came home and said someone had given her an invitation to some big event in the area and she really wanted to go. It didn’t seem like a big deal, you know? I didn’t need to think really hard about if I wanted to go out with my girlfriend on a weekend to a party.”  
  
Dean nodded. “Was there anything weird about it when you got there?”  
  
“No,” Sam shook his head. “I mean, what was weird was that it wasn’t really in the student ghetto area, it was a real house. But that’s not  _that_  unusual. A bunch of Jess’s friends were there too, and about half the rest of the student body. Lots of alcohol, loud music, people being stupid--"  
  
“Your typical college party.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Go on,” Dean prompted when Sam stayed silent.  
  
He drew a deep breath, eyes distant with memory. “It just didn’t seem like a big deal. It’s amazing what can change your life. Or kill you,” Sam’s smile was bitter. “She wanted to dance, I had a headache. Her friends offered to drive her home if I just wanted to go on my own and crash early, but... I don’t know. I can’t  _point_  to anything, but I didn’t want to leave her there.”  
  
“Can you give me the names of these friends?” Dean held out a pen and the memo pad from the motel dresser. Sam took it and absently started writing.  
  
“She was dancing,” Sam sighed. “I went to find someplace a little quieter to sit and wait for her. There was a band outside by the pool, and there was another band in the house... I don’t think they were really _bands_ , just some guys with instruments and a lack of talent. They had drums. It was horrible.” Dean nodded in understanding.  
  
“But outside at least there was fresh air,” Sam continued. “This guy came up to me, he didn’t look... out of place, you know? Maybe a little older than most of the people, but there’re a lot of grad students, so it’s not like being older is a  _sign_  or something. He offered me a joint, said I looked like I needed something to soothe my nerves.”  
  
“He drugged you?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “Not like that. I said no. Weed on top of booze would have had me puking in the gutter.”  
  
“Really?” Dean asked incredulously.  
  
“You want to hear this or not?” Sam glared.  
  
“Yeah, but you’re a lightweight.”  
  
Sam ignored his comment. “I said no but he stayed, kept talking to me. I don’t really remember most of it, just random crap. Then I remember he had his arm around me. I don’t think I tried to get away, it didn’t feel weird at the time. We went back inside...” Sam’s voice trailed off again and he rubbed at his eyes.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“Give me a minute.”  
  
Dean waited. He wasn’t actually sure he wanted to hear the rest of this, but he had to know. He needed all of the information he could get on how this thing hunted so he could track it down and fucking kill it. Preferably without joining Sam on his undead odyssey of revenge.  
  
“What happened inside, Sam?”  
  
“We, uh... there were some stairs. And a room. There were a lot of people in there -- my memory gets a little fuzzy for the rest of this.”  
  
“Just tell me what you do remember.”  
  
“It wasn’t really dark inside, the light was blue and I could still hear the music everywhere. It felt like it was in my bones. I remember a couch and... kissing. He was touching me under my clothes, I  _wanted_  him to.” Sam’s voice had grown harsher and more ragged as he wrestled with memories no one should have to live with. “It’s like Jessica didn’t even  _exist_  anymore. I just wanted  _him_. It didn’t matter that I was engaged, or that we were in the middle of a crowd, or that he was a  _guy_ \--"  
  
“I know what it feels like,” Dan said darkly.  
  
“I wouldn’t have  _hurt_  you,” Sam snapped. “I told you, I made a mistake. And it’s not like there wasn’t something in you that was interested.”  
  
“Was there something in  _you_  that was  _interested_?” Dean asked pointedly.  
  
“No,” Sam shook his head. “But it’s different, I’m not like he was. I don’t have that kind of power.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Sam visibly hesitated. But he knew, Dean could see it in his face.  
  
“Why  _not_ , Sam?” Dean demanded.  
  
“I... haven’t killed anyone, yet. They said I have to kill someone, I have to, uh, absorb them, to finish the change. I’m not very strong like this, I can only charm people who are already vulnerable to it.” He licked his lips nervously and watched Dean for a reaction.  
  
Dean didn’t have much of one to give him. He was still reeling from the idea that Sam  _wasn’t very strong_. “Keep going. You were on the couch, he had his hands all over you, crowded room -- what next?”  
  
Sam was still fiddling with the pen. “We went to a different room. I don’t remember moving, but it was darker and there was a bed. I was naked,  _he_  was naked. There were other people in the room because I remember hearing them talking, but I don’t remember what any of them looked like. We had sex.” Sam’s voice was almost emotionless and he wouldn’t look up at all.  
  
“What kind of sex?”  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?” Sam asked defensively.  
  
“Because if the next thing you’re going to tell me is that the raping bastard from the party infected you with his undead-sex-demon germs using his  _dick_ , I need to know what the hell that actually means! It might be important to know when I track his ass down if I should wait for him to get dressed before I tackle him, or if it takes a little more  _penetration_  to catch his disease. That clear enough for you?”  
  
“He fucked me,” Sam said bluntly. “He had his dick up my ass and his tongue halfway down my throat and I don’t know  _what part_  of everything he did to me that caused this, but I know he had to kill me afterwards to make it stick. Is that  _clear enough for you_?”  
  
Dean grunted. “Tell me the rest.”  
  
Sam swallowed and nodded. “There’s not much else to tell. I remember people... petting me. There were hands everywhere, I didn’t feel good. I mean, I didn’t feel  _bad_ , just empty, kind of absent. He was talking, but I don’t remember what he said. The next thing I remember was waking up in the morgue and seeing Jessica...” His voice was thick enough as it trailed off that Dean was surprised not to see tears.  
  
Maybe the dead couldn’t cry. Whatever  _death_  meant in this case.  
  
“Do you want some water?” Dean asked. Sam nodded gratefully and Dean filled a plastic glass at the bathroom sink and brought it back.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“What happened at the morgue?”  
  
“I was sitting there in a sheet, it was cold. My entire body hurt, I was starving. I thought... I don’t know  _what_  I thought, but for sure that there had been a mistake. I wasn’t supposed to be there.”  
  
“Why run off, then? Why not try to get some help?”  
  
Sam set the empty cup on the table. “I couldn’t get the door open. It was some kind of refrigerator. The light was coming through a window in the door and I pulled the tag off my foot and sat back on the table I woke up on, just reading it over and over again. I thought I might die of the cold, the idea didn’t upset me. Then the door opened, and she was there.”  
  
Dean frowned. “Who was there? One of the people who worked at the morgue?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know if she worked there but she wasn’t surprised to see me. She handed me a pile of clothes, they weren’t mine but they fit okay, and then led me out the back door. I was just... nothing felt real. I was so cold, and so just  _empty_. The next thing I know we’re in a  _really_  trashy strip club and she’s pulling me to the back. But I could feel it as soon as we hit the door. Filling me up, chasing away the ice, just all this  _energy_.”  
  
“What did you do at the club?” Dean asked suspiciously.  
  
“You want to know if I killed anyone?” Sam asked thinly. “Almost. There was a woman in the back, she ...wanted me. Was waiting for me. I don’t know what she was on, drugs, alcohol. Something. It was... intoxicating. I touched her and it was  _power_. I kissed her and it was like being in the center of a storm of just the most fantastic feeling. I don’t know what would have happened, if I would have killed her or not if we’d been left alone, but the woman who brought me there pulled me back. She was  _excited_ , she had to tell me how  _happy_  she was to have me. How she had been sent to take care of me, to help me  _feed_  and show me the ropes. That after I was done with my first meal that I would be one of them, and no one could take me away from my  _family_. I... looked down at the woman I had been kissing and she... she wasn’t  _dead_ , but she wasn’t good, either. I don’t know what happened to her after that. I left. Found my way outside and threw up in the bushes, then just started walking.” He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t know where to go. I saw in the papers that Jess and I had drowned so I... couldn’t go home. I couldn’t call Bobby. I just... wanted to find them. To  _kill_  them. And then, do whatever I needed to do to... finish it.”  
  
“How did you know they needed to kill you?” Dean asked quietly. “Earlier you said they had to kill you to make it stick.”  
  
Sam sighed. “Another one of them found me a few days later; she wanted to bring me in. To help me. I demanded to know what they had done, I,” he laughed, “I wanted to know how I could  _get better_. She told that once I was ‘washed in the waters’ I couldn’t, that I was  _one of them_ , and I had to finish up or die. I can’t use the energy very well; I’m in some kind of... I don’t know, like a half life? She offered to help me find someone I could ‘enjoy.’ I demanded to see the guy who had done this to me. I had a knife; I thought if she brought me to him I could get close and stab him. Then I didn’t care what happened to me.”  
  
“He’s undead,” Dean said skeptically. “I’m not sure a knife is going to do you a whole hell of a lot of good.”  
  
“I’m not some badass monster hunter,  _Dean_ ,” Sam snapped. “This ‘dead’ and ‘undead’ stuff doesn’t exactly rise to the top of my head. I plan to kill someone, I think knife or gun. What would  _you_  do?”  
  
Dean thought about that. “Well, I still have no idea what the hell you are, but I’d try something more in the salt-silver-holy water family if I was just taking a stab in the dark and wasn’t going to have time to make a second attempt.”  
  
Sam blinked.  
  
“What?” Dean asked.  
  
“Uh, nothing. It’s just... you said  _Bobby_  is into this stuff too?”  
  
“Taught me everything I know,” Dean admitted. “Well, he taught my dad, and my dad taught me... you get the idea.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever. I can’t believe that  _Bobby_...” Sam shook his head. “So to finish this up, she said no one was brought to the  _master_  until they proved themselves worthy. By killing someone. I refused, she stormed off. I tried to follow her but that didn’t go anywhere. That’s... all I know.”  
  
Dean swung his legs up onto the bed and slumped back against the headboard. “Was that the last time you saw any of them?”  
  
“No, I see them on the street sometimes. But only when they’re pretty much in reach, passing a crowd. It’s hard to explain, everyone has an energy feel around them, but they don’t -- the other ones like me. They’re like blank spots on a canvas. I think they’re watching me, waiting for me to break down. Or fall down.”  
  
“I thought you  _were_  feeding, just not killing people.”  
  
“I am! But it’s not like ordering takeout. Like I said, most people are creeped out by me, and I’m afraid to take much from the ones who are actually willing because I don’t know how much will hurt them. I don’t want to hurt anybody, Dean.”  
  
“Hang out in brothels,” Dean suggested. “You said that’s where that first chick took you.”  
  
“She took me there to  _kill_  someone, Dean,” Sam growled. “Those places, the energy just floating around... It’s like -- I don’t know, getting to lick the empty pan when you’re so hungry you could scream. It keeps me on my feet, but I’m so tired, and  _so_  empty. Even just sitting this close to you, remembering what you  _felt_  like...” A tendril of heat curled through Dean at Sam’s look, and he shoved himself violently to his feet, breaking the moment. A visible shudder ran through Sam’s body and he looked away, shoulders hunched in shame.  
  
“I’ll give you a pass on that one,” Dean said levelly. “But I don’t want to  _ever_  feel that again.  _Ever_ , Sam. Or this little truce we’ve got for the moment is going to come to a violent and sudden end.”  
  
Sam nodded and the silence in the room was deafening for a few minutes.  
  
“They said... from what they told me I thought maybe...” Sam broke the silence tentatively a few minutes later.  
  
“Spit it out,” Dean growled.  
  
“I just... from what they said, about needing to  _kill_  someone, and not being able to meet this master guy until I did -- I thought maybe if I could kill him, before I kill someone else, then maybe I would just... be okay again. Be human? Not... whatever I am, you know? Why else make me wait, what’s the point?”  
  
“Making sure you know your place?” Dean suggested dryly.  
  
“You don’t know that,” Sam insisted.  
  
“It doesn’t work like that, Sam,” Dean said almost gently. “You’re  _dead_.”  
  
“You don’t even know what the hell I am,” Sam snapped back. “You don’t know  _anything_.”  
  
“I know you look more like your  _morgue photos_  than you did the last time I ran into you. Is this because you haven’t fed lately?”  
  
Sam nodded. “I think so. When I met you last time I had just found someone... accommodating, a couple of days earlier. But that was the last good ‘meal’ I had. I thought it would be easier, but people can feel what I am. They  _sense_  it.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Dean growled.  
  
“You were easy,” Sam sounded somewhat puzzled. “I didn’t lean on you that hard and you just kind of--"  
  
“Thanks,” Dean cut him off. “But I lived it, so I don’t need a recap. I have a sensitivity to sex-whatevers. Fantastic. Let’s move on.”  
  
“To what?” Sam asked simply. “I don’t know where to find any of the others, I’m getting worse and worse. I don’t see a hell of a lot of hope here, Dean. Maybe you should just go with your original plan -- kill me, then do whatever you can to kill  _them_.”  
  
“Something that will probably be a lot easier with you around to use for information or bait or something,” Dean pointed out. “And what happened to ‘maybe I can be human again’ -- I thought you were all hopeful about that?”  
  
“And I thought you said that was a pipe dream?” Sam asked with a faint smile. “I’m tired, Dean. It  _hurts_. I haven’t... done anything bad yet. Haven’t ruined any lives. But I will, I can  _feel_  it. I’m fighting to keep myself in check every second of every minute that I’m alive. Even when I sleep, I dream about... They’re not human dreams, Dean. I don’t want to be this  _thing_ , and I don’t know how much longer I can stay  _sane_ like this.”  
  
Dean crossed his arms. “You think you’ve got a few days left?”  
  
“To help you destroy them? Yeah, I think I can manage that. What do you have in mind?”  
  
“Not sure yet. Call Bobby probably, tell him what you’ve told me--“  
  
“Do you have to?” Sam broke in. “You can just... summarize, right?”  
  
“Do I  _have_  to--" Dean began incredulously, but caught the look in Sam’s eye and remembered again who he was to Bobby, and exactly what kind of information Dean needed to share. He nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I mean -- he doesn’t need to know every detail. Just enough to help me figure this out.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean echoed. Sam looked around.  
  
“Uh, now what?”  
  
Dean reached over and plucked the list of names off the table. “Now we get to work.”  
  


~~~~~

  
It was close to dawn before Dean finally closed the laptop, exhausted. No new bodies had cropped up in the last twenty four hours and nothing else suspicious was being reported in the area. Sam had provided the list of Jessica’s friends from the party, but Sam knew all of them. They were students he had known for years, and that made the odds that any one of them would be some kind of undead sex-fiend slim. Sam also had the address of the house where everything had happened, but he had already looked into it and said the place had been empty rental property. No trail to follow there. Dean still intended to check it out, and the strip club, but he had the sinking feeling both would be dead ends. There was always the possibility that Sam’s little friend from the morgue was an actual employee, but he couldn’t exactly waltz Sam through the front door and take a head count to see if he recognized her. He had some ideas about other ways to work that angle, but nothing that could be done immediately.  
  
Dean should have been in bed hours ago, but... he wasn’t exactly  _afraid_  -- maybe wary. He looked over at the bed where Sam was sleeping. Or something that passed for sleep. It was restless, and uneasy, and broken by whimpers and mumbled words that Dean couldn’t quite catch. Didn’t want to catch, really. He doubted it was anything relevant to the case and it seemed... unfair, to take advantage of his vulnerability. Which irritated Dean all over again since it was  _his_  bed and  _his_  motel room and Sam was a goddamned  _monster_. And speaking of which, he had a phone call to make that he had been putting off long enough.  
  
Dean pulled his cell phone out and dialed a familiar number.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Hey, Bobby. So, I have some new information...”  
  
The conversation went about like he expected it to.  
  


~~~~~

  
“What did he say?” Sam asked the following morning over a breakfast of gas station sausage burritos and juice boxes.  
  
Dean, feeling irritated after getting less than an hour of sleep slumped over in one of the vinyl chairs, watched Sam pick up a third one of the foil wrapped packages with narrowed eyed. “For something undead, you’ve got an awfully good appetite.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It’s something to do with my mouth.” Dean missed whatever else Sam said since his first sentence had sparked a flashback in Dean stronger than he had had to deal with in over a week. He swallowed hard and wrenched his gaze away from Sam’s lips.  
  
“Dean?’  
  
“Nothing,” Dean said harshly, aware that Sam could  _feel_  his ‘energy’ and afraid of what it might be telling him. “What did you say?”  
  
Sam eyed him warily, but if he was detecting anything unusual from Dean he refrained from commenting. “I said I seem to handle food okay. It doesn’t make me feel  _less_  of what I feel as far as being hungry goes, but it’s something normal, and I like it. You want me to pay for half?”  
  
Dean snorted, back in control. “If I wanted you to pay, it’d be for more than half. That was  _my_  burrito, math genius.”  
  
Sam mumbled something around a mouthful and gestured back towards the gas station helpfully. Dean glowered. “And don’t get used to eating in the car, I don’t like cleaning greasy fingerprints off of my baby.” Sam rolled his eyes and made a show of wiping his hands on his jeans while chewing.  
  
“You were going to tell me what Bobby said?” Sam repeated after swallowing.  
  
“What did you think he would say? He said he’d look into it, and get back to me if he has any leads. He can’t just pull answers out of his ass, you know?”  
  
“Is he... going to come out?”  
  
Dean had half expected the question. “No.”  
  
Sam nodded. “Still busy with whatever he was doing, I guess.” He must have read something in Dean’s expression because he frowned. “ _Is_  that why he’s not coming? I mean, you said he’s in your line of work too, right? That’s why you called him for advice?”  
  
“He’s on a case but... He’s not coming because it’s too close,” Dean said bluntly. Bobby had buried too many people close to him, and had been forced to do the killing on more than one occasion. Dean didn’t blame him for wanting a pass on this, easier just to accept that Sam was dead and whatever was walking around in his shell was just something else to be hunted. By someone else.  
  
Understanding dawned in Sam’s eyes. “He doesn’t want to come out here and watch me die.”  
  
“Do you blame him?”  
  
Sam picked at the wrapper and shook his head. “No. I haven’t forgotten what the bigger picture is here. I... you’re right. This is better. I want him to remember me like I was.”  
  
“It’s for the best. He’s lost a lot of people in his life,” Dean said a little awkwardly.  
  
“And he shouldn’t be in the position of maybe having to kill one of the few he has left,” Sam said calmly. “I understand, Dean. I should have realized.” He crumpled the wrapped into a ball and tossed it back in the empty bag. “So... do we have a plan?”  
  
Dean accepted the change of topic gratefully. “I’ve got some plans, but first I’ve got some housekeeping. I hope you like Laundromats.”  
  
As it turned out, Sam didn’t have an aversion to doing laundry. Not that it would have mattered if he did since he wasn’t leaving Dean’s sight, but Sam actually seemed to enjoy the  _normality_  of hanging out with people whose primary concern was which colors could be washed together without everyone’s underwear turning pink. Dean left Sam at the counter flipping through a stack of old magazines while he chucked his own filthy clothes into two of the machines.  
  
He was digging quarters out of his pocket for the second load when he felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to see an elderly woman standing there with a severe look on her face. “That young man you came with is more than old enough to know the difference between public lives and private ones. It’s shameful to see grown people behaving this way.”  
  
Dean looked up sharply, but Sam was nowhere to be seen in the one room building. He grabbed the woman by the arm before she could walk away. “Where is he?”  
  
She pursed her lips and looked pointedly at his hand. “Outside, with that equally poorly behaved young lady. Her parents aren’t any better than his.”  
  
He released her and ran for the front of the store. Before he reached the doors he could already see through the glass Sam standing on the sidewalk gesticulating wildly while engaged in an apparent argument with a shapely brunette at least a foot and a half shorter than himself. Dean couldn’t see her face, but the conversation was animated enough that passersby on the busy sidewalk were giving them wide berth. Sam set his hands on his hips and shook his head just as Dean pushed through the doors. He was still shaking it a few seconds later when the unknown woman apparently grew tired of the debate -- and shoved him out into traffic.  
  
“SAM!”  
  
Horns blared and cars swerved, but one couldn’t swerve fast enough and slammed into Sam’s falling body with a sickening crunch. The crowd gave a collective gasp, and then people started running to help. Dean was torn, on one hand Sam wasn’t really alive, and if he was injured as badly as the sound of impact suggested he probably  _shouldn’t_  be taken to a hospital, on the other hand -- that woman was almost certainly one of Sam’s undead sex-fiend sisters and this might be his only chance to get his hands on the information he needed to root out and destroy the whole group.  
  
The woman was rapidly vanishing into the crowd and Dean had just taken his first steps in pursuit, when a blast of familiar heat rolled over him and he abruptly restacked priorities. Around him people looked stunned, some staggered back, some stepped forward, but the center of the mess was Sam, and what Sam was doing to them. Dean clenched one fist hard to enough to bury his short nails into his palm and elbowed his way roughly to the road. Sam was clutching at one leg and his face was twisted with pain.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked harshly, dropping to his knees on the asphalt. He wanted to reach out and find the damage for himself, but he wanted that a little too much and the screaming voice in his head made him keep his hands to himself.  
  
“My leg, my hip,” Sam gasped. The crowd around them seemed to be shaking off their daze.  
  
“Can you walk?” When Sam didn’t respond Dean risked grabbing his arm where fabric covered his skin and giving him a rough shake. “Sam, can you walk?! You can’t stay here. You can’t -- look at these people!”  
  
Sam did, and his face blanched even more if possible. “You’ll have to help me,” he gritted out, reaching for Dean’s hands.  
  
Dean took a deep bracing breath and hauled Sam up, ignoring his sharp cry as Dean got a shoulder under one of his arms and gave the crowd a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, I’m gonna take him to the hospital. No need to be concerned, folks.”  
  
One teary eyed young woman who seemed to have pulled herself together faster than the rest stepped out in front of them. She had car keys in her hand and Dean felt distantly sorry that she had been drawn into whatever the hell was going on. “Please, I didn’t see him! Let me help.” She extended her hands as if to help take some of Sam’s weight and Dean could feel Sam lean towards her. The woman’s pupils were so wide Dean couldn’t tell what colors her irises were normally, and the expression on her face took away any doubt he might have had about her being one of the “special” people Sam could easily affect.  
  
Dean hauled Sam back a few feet and gave her a stern look. “No. Go home,” he ordered. She looked inclined to argue and Dean envisioned a future in which she tackled them to the ground to get her hands on Sam.  
  
“It’s all right,” Sam managed a second later as the storm clouds continued to gather in her face. Dean could almost feel him struggling to reign in his  _charm_ , or whatever he called it. “I’ll be fine, it was an accident. Go on.”  
  
She looked incredibly disappointed, but didn’t try and stop them again. Dean all but carried Sam to the Impala and stuffed him into the backseat.  
  
“You know I’m not taking you to a hospital, right?” Dean asked flatly as he climbed behind the wheel.  
  
“I know,” Sam gasped. “Where are we going?”  
  
Dean honestly hadn’t planned that far. “I guess... back to the motel. Either that or take you out into a field and shoot you.”  
  
“I’m in favor of that plan,” Sam mumbled.  
  
Dean snorted. “I bet you are. Unfortunately for us both, I might need you. Was that one of your sisters?”  
  
“She’s not my  _sister_ , and yeah.”  
  
“What did she want?” Dean asked as he pulled the Impala out into traffic.  
  
There was only the sound of labored breathing from the backseat for a minute. “Dean, I know this might be hard to believe, but I can’t think very well right now. Do you think this can wait a little while?”  
  
“Talking gives you something else to focus on.”  
  
There was no answer from the backseat but some very ugly language followed by a sullen silence.  
  
Getting Sam into the motel room wasn’t fun, but there was little chance of anyone watching them since Dean had a made a point to pick the most deserted hellhole he could find and get a room at the back. Sam clung to him as Dean dragged him out of the car and hauled him to the building, tears of pain dampened his lashes until he was past the point of even being able to curse. Dean didn’t think it was just the agony from his awkwardly hanging leg that Sam was battling though. Where Dean touched him his skin felt like... silk, smooth, and hot and  _inviting_  in a way that would have had Dean dropping him on the ground if he didn’t think Sam was already doing everything he could to keep it reigned in.  
  
When he finally got Sam eased down onto the bed the first thing Sam did was roll away, as if he couldn’t put space between them fast enough.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dean growled.  
  
Sam’s breathing was rough and his face was pressed into the pillow. After a moment he raised it enough to meet Dean’s eyes. “Sorry, I... you can’t touch me again. You can’t...” He closed his eyes. “You have no idea how hard it is to not pull you in right now. When you touch me, it’s worse.”  
  
“I appreciate the restraint.” Dean dug in his duffle bag for a pair of leather gloves he kept on hand. “But if you can’t set that yourself, we don’t have a lot of choice.” He nodded to where a swollen lump was visible even through Sam’s jeans. “And if it swells anymore, there’s not going to be a whole hell of a lot I can do either.” He held up the gloves. “You want me to try or not?”  
  
Sam eyed the leather. “What if I say not?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Normally, with your femur smashed up I’d say a decent chance of death. Plus, you know -- misaligned bones aren’t anyone’s cup of tea. As it is, maybe you only have to worry about the agony part.”  
  
Sam rolled slowly back over, crying out at the movement. “It’s not pain,” he gasped after a moment. “Not like it used to be. I mean it  _hurts_ , but in the places that I’m empty feeling. The places that want to be fed. The actual break--” he raised himself up enough to look down before falling back onto the pillows. “That... it’s just not  _pain_ , and it  _is_  -- but the other things hurts so much  _worse_.” The gaze he rested on Dean had an edge of franticness.  
  
“I still need your help, and the bone still needs to go back into place,” Dean said flatly. “If I wear the gloves, do you think you can keep control of yourself?”  
  
“It’s not going to fix what’s wrong,” Sam managed. “It’s not going to fix what’s  _wrong._ ” As if the repetition would explain some deeper meaning.  
  
“One thing at a time,” Dean said shortly, pulling the gloves on.  
  
Sam laughed breathlessly. “Why bother? Are you going to go find me a victim afterwards? Drag in some prostitute and hope no one notices she’s gone missing?”  
  
Dean clapped sharply and Sam stared, focused for an instant on something other than his internal misery. “I need you to stay with me, Sam -- one fucking problem at a time! Now, can you keep a grip on yourself or not while I try to straighten out your leg?”  
  
Sam nodded; sweat standing on his skin, but his eyes were clear and tracking Dean’s movements as he knelt on the bed over Sam’s lower leg and ripped the jeans open with a pocket knife, exposing skin from hip to calf. The skin over the swollen lump mid-thigh was a deep red with streaks running out into the surrounding tissue. Dean probed gently into the swelling and could feel the heat even through the thick leather.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Dean demanded. “What the hell is the point if you still have to deal with crap like this?”  
  
“Broken bone is a broken bone,” Sam gasped. “You think they just glue together?”  
  
“I think if you have to be dead the very least you could have is some kind of magic power where you can pass out and presto! All fixed when you wake up,” Dean said in disgust. “You better find something to stick in your mouth, whatever kind of  _pain_  you do or don't feel -- this is going to hurt like a bitch, and I think screaming will attract attention.”  
  
In response Sam grabbed one of the pillows and held it over his face.  
  
Dean drew a deep breath. “Try not to move.” With no more warning he dug his fingers into the swollen flesh, hoping it was a clean break and feeling for the broken ends. Femur fractures weren’t common even in his business, and were one of the few injuries most hunters knew better than to mess with. Setting one wrong too often meant death without a hospital on hand, and even if you managed to avoid an embolism you could easily be lame for life. He felt something hard in the center of the mass and pressed in. Sam screamed, the sound muffled in the pillow, but Dean could still clearly hear the sobs he was burying in the cheap cloth and foam.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, probing deeper into the muscle. Doing it gently wouldn’t help anyone and only make things take longer. “I think... I think I’ve got it. Ready?”  
  
The pillow nodded shakily. Dean pressed down as hard as he could and felt the sickening grind of bone against bone even through the hot, swollen flesh. He was barely aware of another muffled scream, all of his attention on not having to repeat what he was doing.  
  
When he was satisfied he had the bone as straight as he could, he climbed off the bed and grabbed the floor lamp in the corner. It was cheap and the brass paint was flaking off even as he touched it, but it was metal and straight and that was all Dean cared about. He stripped off the light fixture and set it on the dresser with the lamp shade. Behind him, Sam had discarded the pillow and was breathing in deep, ragged gasps. Dean unscrewed the base and pulled out the cord, then grabbed a length of rope from his bag. He looped the rope around Sam’s thigh well above the break, fastened the lamp post against his leg then tied the other end of the rope off around Sam’s foot. Sam whimpered as Dean checked the tension, then tightened and retied the rope.  
  
“It doesn’t do you any good if it’s not going to hold the bone,” Dean said calmly. Sam nodded in understanding, but was still too busy controlling his breathing to reply.  
  
Dean pulled up a chair. “So, now that we have that little crisis out of the way -- what  _the hell_  was the point of all that? Don’t even try to tell me she shoved you into traffic by  _accident_!”  
  
Sam shook his head, sweat plastered strands of dark hair stuck to his face. “No, she meant to do it. It was the same conversation I always have with them. She wanted me to kill someone so I could ‘come home.’” Sam swallowed and coughed. “I told her no, like always. She... didn’t take it well.”  
  
“No shit," Dean snorted.  
  
“I mean she said maybe I just needed fewer choices. Then she shoved me.”  
  
Dean frowned. “Because she was pissed?”  
  
“I think she wanted to hurt me, to make me so desperate I would  _have_  to kill someone for the energy to heal.”  
  
They both looked down at Sam’s leg where it was fastened against the faux brass pole.  
  
Sam slumped back again. “I guess I didn’t get hurt as badly as she wanted. It was so hard not to reach out, Dean. It's still  _so hard_. All of those people... y _ou_... I don’t think I could have held out if this was much worse.”  
  
“And now?” Dean asked quietly.  
  
Sam wasn’t meeting his eyes. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Sam--“  
  
“ _I don’t know_ , Dean! I don’t know how long I can hold out like this. I don’t know if my leg will heal without more energy, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be safe to be around. I can’t  _think_ , if I could just take the edge off -- even a  _little_.” Sam swallowed hard again. “Maybe you should have picked a place that rents by the hour, at least then there would be a  _little_  bit to absorb from the air.”  
  
“I thought that just whetted your appetite.”  
  
“It’s something,” Sam said in a defeated voice.  
  
There was a long silence again. Dean considered Sam’s grayish complexion and sunken features, he looked significantly worse than he had even before their little laundry excursion. Sam’s eyes were closed and his breathing was still rough as he struggled with things Dean could thankfully only imagine. And... he was still useful, the same reasons Dean had stayed his hand earlier were just as valid now. Sam was his link to the others, was the only clue Dean had to rooting out the infection and stopping the murders. Two weeks hadn’t led to a single other lead so far. He had a few to follow, but if they came up bust...  
  
“What about if I, uh, jack off? Would that help you out?” he asked a little awkwardly.  
  
Sam’s eyes flew open and he turned to stare back at Dean. “If you--?” he echoed with the air of someone who wasn’t entirely certain they had been hearing correctly.  
  
“I’m not going to repeat it, you heard what I said.” Dean tossed the gloves onto the foot of the bed and crossed his arms. “Would it help, or not?”  
  
“Anything,  _please_ ,” Sam said with a desperate gratitude that made Dean, if anything, more uncomfortable. This wasn’t the kind of begging he enjoyed in the bedroom. And it was harder in some ways to remember to keep the distance between them that Dean needed very badly to keep, because Sam  _seemed_  human, and he was likeable and not really hard on the eyes even in his current state...  
  
“You said you can pick it up from a distance, right? I can just go take a shower and do my thing there?”  
  
Some of the hope died in Sam’s face but he still nodded. “That... that’s better than nothing. Yeah,  _thank you_.”  
  
“What’s the problem?” Dean demanded. “Just  _tell_  me, I’m not enjoying this conversation so much that I want to sit around playing twenty questions with you all afternoon while we dance around the language!”  
  
Sam licked his lips. Dean has the distinct impression he had stopped seeing him as ‘Dean’ and more like ‘prime rib.’ “It’s weaker. It won’t give me much anyway, but the farther you are, the less I can gain from it.”  
  
“So if I’m gonna do it, I’m pretty much just wasting my time to be anywhere but in here?”  
  
“There’s, uh, lots of room on the bed...” Sam suggested hesitantly.  
  
Dean swore and turned his head to look at the closed curtain. An entire world out there, things that he could be doing for his freaking job, and he was stuck in a California motel room seriously contemplating whacking off for the benefit of some kind of  _sex demon_. One he already found far too attractive, and he didn’t even know if that was him, or that was  _Sam_. He couldn’t trust his own emotions in this. If his dad had ever had days like these, he had damn sure never bothered telling Dean about them.  
  
But then his dad would probably have just shot Sam that first night, audience or not.  
  
“You can keep your hands to yourself?” he asked reluctantly. Sam nodded almost frantically and wrapped his arms around the pillow he was clasping to his chest, as if demonstrating his good behavior.  
  
“I did something really wrong in a previous life,” Dean grumbled as he kicked his jeans off and tossed his flannel shirt onto the chair with his jacket, leaving himself clad only in threadbare boxers and a plain white t-shirt that had seen better days. He had firm plans to take a long, hot shower the instant this was done and do his best to forget it had ever happened in the first place.  
  
Sam was tracking his every move with hungry eyes.  
  
“Try not to watch me,” Dean ordered as he fished a half-empty tube of cheap lotion out of his bag.  
  
Sam obediently directed his gaze to the ceiling as if counting popcorn on the water-stained paint.  
  
Dean swore under his breath again and lay down on the mattress as gently as possible so he didn’t jar Sam’s leg. The air was close and muggy in the room, he hadn’t really noticed earlier in the distraction of the situation, but the AC either wasn’t running or had broken down. Fantastic. He squeezed a bit of the lotion out onto his palm and tried to let his mind fall into some of his usual fantasies -- a jell-o wrestling match he’d stumbled over while barhopping in Kansas, a certain threesome he’d let himself be talked into with that pair of busty twins while passing through Michigan, and a brunette in Indiana who was flexible in ways that...  
  
Sam coughed, the sound wet and harsh in the otherwise quiet room. The careful fantasies Dean had been constructing dissolved back into cold reality.  
  
He drew a deep breath and started again. That girl --whatever her name had been, with the legs that went on forever and the things she could do with her mouth... A flicker of interest from his dick and Dean slid his hand inside his boxers to encourage it along. Five minutes later he opened his eyes with a huff of exasperation. It wasn’t his imagination that was failing him, it was the awareness of Sam’s painfully still presence barely a foot away. He didn’t think he had ever been in less of the mood in his life.  
  
“This isn’t going to work.”  
  
He heard a hitch in Sam’s breathing. “Maybe... can I... help?”  
  
“ _Help_?” Dean turned his head to glare, but the expression on Sam’s face... help. Right. “Do you have that kind of control?”  
  
Sam hesitated before answering. “Maybe. I think so.”  
  
“Crap.” Dean sighed. “Well, I don’t think this is going to happen any other way right now. I mean just the  _lightest_  of touches, Sam. I had better  _barely_  feel anyt--" His voice broke off in a slow hiss as a delicious sensation of warmth curled through his spine and all the hair on his arms stood up. Finger’s tentatively touched his arm and he turned to meet Sam’s eyes again, but this time he didn’t notice the pallor or the lines of pain. All of Dean’s attention was drawn to the curve of his lower lip and the graceful line of his jaw. Dean wanted to trace it with his tongue and then follow it down... he must have moved in that direction because the light brush of fingers was suddenly a palm pressed firmly to his chest. Dean frowned, Sam’s mouth was moving but the words...  
  
“Dean.”  
  
That broke through the haze. Right. Dean rolled on to his back again and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. Pooling heat in his groin reminded him of what he had been doing. Or not doing. Dean slipped his hand back into his boxers and wrapped his fingers loosely around his growing erection. He didn’t need his catalogue of past encounters anymore; everything he needed was lying only a few inches away on a shared bed, and with that sweet feeling coiling through his body he didn’t even feel the need to resist. Dean shuddered and it wasn’t revulsion that was washing over him. His hand tightened, fingers pressing under the head  _just so_  before sweeping down the shaft. For a few moments the only sounds in the room were that of skin slick on skin and the soft squeak of the mattress as Dean shifted against it, body tightening and sweat breaking on his skin as he dragged himself closer to the edge. In the growing incoherency of his thoughts, Dean imagined he could feel each ridge of print on Sam's fingers where they were wrapped around his left arm, hot as branding irons.  
  
Behind his clenched eyelids Dean could see Sam’s inviting smile in the smoky darkness of a cheap bar... Sam’s muscles gliding under his hands as Dean had rubbed against him, desperate to feel as much as he possibly could... The silky heat of Sam’s skin where he had touched him earlier on the street... The husky timbre of his voice as Dean had helped him to the car... The grinding crunch as the bone had slid into place... At that, even in his current state Dean knew things had gone too far. He tried to struggle back up from where he had fallen, but the entire world was consumed in the building rush and another hand was wrapped around his own where it worked the swollen flesh between his legs. His groan was swallowed by someone else’s mouth and he rolled, pinning Sam firmly beneath him on the bed. Sam made a noise that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but pain, but the brief second of sanity the sound brought Dean was lost when Sam raked his nails over Dean’s back before dragging the shirt up over his head. After that, everything degenerated into pure sensation. Sweat slicked skin, cloth ripping under frantic fingers, the dim impression that getting Sam’s pants off was incredibly  _hard_ , but the reward was no more barriers between them and a blistering heat that seeped into every corner of his mind and swept them all clean. Then there was nothing but Sam.  
  
And then there was just nothing.

 

** Section Three **

  
Dean groaned, sunlight a persistent misery seeping through his eyelids until he had no choice but to surface to consciousness. He had the same sort of dreamy-drugged feeling familiar from far too many hospital visits, and wondered distantly what kind of story he was going to have to make-up for the doctors this time. He tried to remember what had happened, but there was just a big blank in his foggy thoughts. Nothing really hurt, he was just  _exhausted_. It slowly seeped into his awareness that hospitals usually involved more lights, and monitors, and fewer water-stained ceilings.  
  
Dean frowned and made the effort to turn his head. Cheap floral curtains over the window, not doing a fantastic job of blocking out the light. Vinyl chairs. A low dresser with an ancient TV and peeling laminate. A few short stacks of folded laundry next to what looked like a lamp shade and... he squinted, light bulbs? He slowly turned the other way and saw an open door, part of a toilet, and a cheap sink under a mirror with a spider webbing crack running off of one corner. The usual digs then. On a nightstand next to the bed a spoon was sticking out of a bowl beside a half empty bottle of what looked like water.  
  
He lay back, wiped out already from even the little movement he had managed, and it occurred to him that his initial estimation of no pain wasn’t entirely true -- his bladder was  _killing_  him. Dean considered the plastic bottle, but it wasn’t in reach and if he was going to have to move that much... He heaved a heavy sigh and managed to shove the blankets down enough to slide his legs over the side and force himself into a sitting position. A rush of dizziness overwhelmed him and dark spots spun in his vision. When it had passed, he grimly forced himself to stand -- and promptly fell against the wall. But at least he was on his feet. And naked, which was unusual if he had put himself to bed, but not the immediate concern.  
  
Another couple of minutes of calculated and teetering steps and he was at the sink, which was as far as he planned to try for. It looked to be  _his_  room anyway, if he was okay with peeing in the sink, anyone else could bite him. He held onto the bathroom door frame with his free hand for balance while he dealt with matters, and then made the mistake of looking up. He had seen himself in the mirror while crossing the room of course, but had been much too distracted by the adventure he was having to really take it in.  
  
“Jesus,” Dean muttered, stunned. He ran his hand over what was more than a day’s stubble growth and across the hollows of his cheeks. Staring at his own reflection brought to mind someone else he knew who looked like they could use a few meals and possibly life support.  
  
Sam. The not-so-accident accident. His  _offer_. The rest was a blur, but he didn’t need more of a roadmap. Dean rinsed the sink out, then drank a few handfuls of water and made his way back to the bed. No sign of his ‘guest’ anywhere. No sign of his gun under the pillow either. He closed his eyes and tried to force more coherency out of his memory. No gun under the pillow because... he hadn’t been going to sleep. So then where...? It wasn’t in sight, and his car keys, which he distinctly remembered tossing on the table, were definitely gone.  
  
His jeans were no longer on the floor, the memory of pulling someone out of a different pair of jeans spiked through him and he swayed, dizzy and cursing. Dean was just trying to muster the strength to try and find them and dig out his cell phone when a key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Sam stood there, framed in sunlight so bright it brought tears to Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t see any difference between the man in front of him and the picture they had run in the Stanford paper announcing his death. None of the ghastly pallor or drawn gauntness to his features at all anymore.  
  
This guy Dean would have definitely tried to pick up. In any other life but this.  
  
“ _You_ ,” Dean’s scratchy voice was tight was anger and frustration. He was  _furious_  with Sam, but he had known how close Sam was to the edge when he had dreamed up his retarded plan, so he had to shoulder at least half the blame.  
  
Sam froze in place, blinking in what had to be a cavernously dark room for eyes still adjusted to the light. “Dean?”  
  
“Who the hell  _else_  were you expecting?” Dean demanded, annoyed.  
  
“You’re awake!” Sam’s voice was heavy with relief and the smile that spread across his face seemed genuine. “I went back and got your clothes, and picked up some food.” He set the bag hastily on the table and laid the Impala’s keys down beside it. “I tried to get some water and soup into you, but I didn’t want to risk choking you while you were... sleeping.”  
  
“I think we both know that whatever the hell I was doing was ‘sleeping’ about as much as being thrown out a window is ‘flying.’ How long was I out?!”  
  
Sam winced. “Well, it wasn’t really  _that_  long... I mean, I thought you were  _dead_  at first--"  
  
“Not helping your case, Sam,” Dean growled. “ _How long_?”  
  
“Almost three days.”  
  
Dean stared at him. “Three...  _days_?”  
  
“I feel a lot better,” Sam offered.  
  
Dean flopped back on the mattress. “Can you hand me my clothes?” he finally asked. Sam dropped some of the folded stack onto the bed beside him and Dean started struggling into them. Sam made a movement like he wanted to help but caught the glare Dean directed at him and wisely stepped back instead.  
  
“Where’s my gun?” Dean asked when he had the sweatpants and t-shirt finally on.  
  
Sam pointed to the nightstand and Dean retrieved the pistol. He checked it over and frowned. “Where’s the bullets?”  
  
“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you were going to wake up in,” Sam explained. “I wanted to make sure I got a chance to talk before you started shooting or anything.”  
  
“I made the stupid offer, Sam. I’m not going to shoot you over my screw-up.” He set the gun back on the table in disgust. The urge to just curl back up and pass out was almost overwhelming in intensity. “Weren’t you afraid that this kind of drainage would hurt people?” he demanded. “Should I like... expect to see my fingers start falling off or something?”  
  
Sam started taking items out of the paper grocery sack, keeping most of his attention warily on Dean. “I told you I don’t know much about it. But you  _seem_  okay, just... really tired. You feel -- dimmer? But not _weird_. And not as dim as you felt yesterday.”  
  
“I’m glad I don’t feel  _dim_  to you anymore, Sam, because I’ve got to say I feel pretty damn  _dim_  over here right now. What the hell was I  _thinking_?”  
  
Sam ignored the comment.  
  
Dean leaned back against the headboard. “So. Bullets? In case your fan club decides to crash our little slumber party?”  
  
“In here.” Sam tossed the duffle bag into the bed. “I thought you weren’t sure bullets would do the trick?”  
  
“I’m not. Which is something else we need to figure out.” Dean rummaged around. “I bet people were impressed when you strolled in to pick up my clothes.”  
  
“I got a couple of raised eyebrows, but I just told the only person that asked that I had some bad bruises but it looked worse than it was.”  
  
Dean grunted. “Fine. Anything else while I was enjoying my coma?”  
  
“...No.”  
  
“You can’t lie for crap, Sam. What happened?”  
  
“Bobby called.”  
  
“And you answered the phone?” Dean asked incredulously.  
  
“Not the first time,” Sam said defensively. “But the fifth? I had to! I was afraid he was going to rush out here and think I tried to kill you!”  
  
“You  _did_  try to kill me!”  
  
“I could have, I  _wanted_  to -- but I didn’t.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “ _Thanks_.” They exchanged glares for a minute, and then Dean closed his eyes and let gravity work its magic on him a little more. “What did you guys talk about?”  
  
Sam looked somewhat mollified by the change in conversational direction. “I told him you got hit by a car and were heavily medicated. Said I’d have you call when you woke up and were coherent.”  
  
“When was that?”  
  
“Yesterday.”  
  
Dean sighed. “He’s probably packing salt rounds right now. You guys discuss... anything else?”  
  
“You mean my grades last semester and how instead of me bringing Jess home for Christmas he can just get me a pine box?”  
  
“Basically.”  
  
“No. It... I didn’t want to talk about it with him. And I don’t think he wanted to talk to me at all.” Sam’s voice sounded a little hurt, but they had already discussed it and there wasn’t anything else for Dean to say on that topic. He wished Sam hadn’t had to experience the cold shoulder from a guy who was pretty much his dad though. He was having enough trouble.  
  
“Give me my phone.” He dialed the number from memory and waited until someone picked up.  
  
“Bobby?”  
  
“Dean? What the  _hell_  happened to you?!”  
  
“There was an incident with a car.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. “I’m better now.”  
  
“So he wasn’t lying.”  
  
“Not entirely,” Dean hedged. “It’s fine though. I’m just still... really tired.”  
  
“Next question then. What the hell is he doing in your motel room?!”  
  
“It’s complicated, Bobby.” Said complication was eating what looked to be a can of sliced peaches and paying close attention to the conversation. “He wants these things dead as much as I do.”  
  
“And after you deal with them? Then what?” Bobby demanded.  
  
“He knows the score,” Dean replied simply. Sam didn’t look up.  
  
“Fine,” Bobby grunted. “I’ve got some news for you and... Sam. We were right, he’s not an incubus.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“He’s a naiad.”  
  
“A  _what_?”  
  
Dean could hear the sounds of pages turning through the phone. “They’re a kind of Greek spirit. Real classic old world type monster.”  
  
“Aren’t they associated with trees or something?”  
  
Over at the table Sam looked confused by what he could hear of Dean’s side of the conversation.  
  
“Those are  _dryads_ ,” Bobby snapped. “Naiads are traditionally spirits of water and seduction.”  
  
“Water and...” Dean repeated slowly.  
  
“Exactly. And they aren’t born that way; they make new members of the club. It was the drowning that really clued me in. I don’t think anyone in this country has ever had a run in with one. Hell, it’s been decades since I know of anyone in  _Europe_  having to deal with a nest of them. I had to track down an old friend of mine, Stevros, to get any kind of good information on them. All I had are musty old books repeating a lot of crap rumors.”  
  
Dean motioned impatiently for the laptop and looked up naiads when Sam handed it to him.  
  
“It says here they’re female spirits.” He glanced over at Sam who raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about--"  
  
“That’s because most of them  _are_  female," Bobby said impatiently. “They’re patriarchal and territorial, one male and a bunch of females to a family. Stevros says only the male can create new ones. The females are essentially drones, and they would only pick another male to transform when the old king was getting ready to die and needed an heir to pass the group onto. I guess maybe if they wanted to start a new branch too.”  
  
“Wait a minute,  _die_? I thought these things were already dead!”  
  
“It’s part of their process. First they infect their victim, and then drown them. Without the second part the victim is just a thrall and according to Stevros it wears off eventually. Which he would know because apparently he spent a week rolling around with a group of them back in his twenties. Damn idiot. But they aren’t undead like we usually think of undead -- not like vampires and the like. They don’t age, but eventually they kind of... burn out. Like husks. It takes centuries though. In the meantime they do a pretty damn good job of passing. They move around a lot too, and they aren’t stupid. They don’t like to stay in one place long enough for anyone to really notice the pattern of their kills. I bet the only reason they’re still there now is..." Bobby’s voice trailed off.  
  
“Sam,” Dean filled in shortly. “I got it. How do I kill them?” he demanded.  
  
“Cut off their head or burn them to ashes. They’re supposed to be highly flammable. Anything else and they’ll just eat a few people and recover. You can take a whole nest out at once if you can get to the leader though, apparently without an heir all the drones will just... die. The problem is not getting ensnared by them in the process. Stevros says they can feel attention, feel when someone is focused on them in the area --it has to do with how they feed.”  
  
Dean eyed Sam. “Yeah, I know about it. But I don’t have to use anything special? Just a hatchet or some kerosene?”  
  
Sam’s eyes widened.  
  
“That should do it.”  
  
“Sam said that they told him he also had to kill someone to finish the transformation. You know anything about that?”  
  
“Stevros was in a hurry, he’s going to call me back when he gets a chance and fill me in on the rest. Like I said -- until he does that any other information I have is about as good as what you’ll find online. Utter crap.”  
  
“So... you haven’t seen anywhere that killing the leader before a new  _recruit_  makes their first kill might somehow make them human again? I know it’s crazy, but they said some things to Sam and I told him I would ask--”  
  
“I was just about to get to that,” Bobby cut in. “That’s a popular rumor with a lot of monsters, but weirdly, when you really start digging, the earlier references do seem to be with naiads.”  
  
It wasn’t what Dean had expected to hear. “Maybe a chance then?”  
  
Dean could hear the hesitation, and then the sigh. “There’s always a chance,” Bobby said heavily. “But not one I’d want to stake anything on. My records are crap, but there’s no hint of anyone who was actually cured. Just smoke and mirrors. I’ll ask Stevros when he calls back though.”  
  
“Thanks. I need Sam’s help with the case, and if we can cut the head off the snake and it cures him -- fantastic. I’ll drag him back to your house and we can all get really drunk together.”  
  
There was a long silence. “And when you can’t, or when it doesn’t?”  
  
“Like I told you, he knows the score.” Bobby made a noncommittal sound and Dean flipped the phone shut with an eye roll.  
  
“You and Bobby have a nice chat about killing me?” Sam asked levelly.  
  
Dean gave him an unimpressed look. “You mean again?”  
  
Sam finished the can, it rattled as he set it back on the table. “Your half of the conversation sounded interesting. You know, with the female spirits and the kerosene.”  
  
“Hand me a bottle of water and I’ll fill you in.”  
  


~~~~~

  
After catching Sam up, Dean slipped back into an exhausted sleep. He woke up on and off from strange, wandering dreams -- of waterfalls and deep pools of foaming green water, Sam naked and wrapped around him on sheets of fine-spun cotton in the late afternoon light -- just long enough for a depressingly dressed and not-entirely-human Sam to fill him in on whatever random debris he had gleaned off the internet regarding his newfound species. Most of which sounded really awful, but Sam seemed pleased to have some kind of name for what had happened to him.  
  
Thirty more hours of sleep and Dean still felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and still looked like he’d been buried a week, but shuffled trips between the bathroom and the bed didn’t take all of his strength anymore and he figured it was time to get back to work.  
  
“So... now what are we going to do?” Sam asked, watching him pull a shirt on after a hasty shower.  
  
“Same plan,” Dean grumbled. “This time try not to let your crazy relatives shove you into traffic, because if you think this whole thing where I generously offer to help you out is happening again -- you’d better keep thinking.”  
  
“I promise to look both ways before I cross the street,” Sam said dryly.  
  
Dean looked around. “We need to get a different room too. Who knows how long we’re going to be in this crappy town running things down? You seem to need sleep, I  _definitely_  do, and those chairs aren’t doing it. And no offense, but I’m not up to sharing a bed with you anymore.”  
  
“What are you going to tell them about the lamp?” They both looked over at the scattered pieces on the dresser and the base, cord, and pole laying haphazardly against the wall.  
  
“Nothing, we’ll toss it in the dumpster and play dumb.”  
  
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Sam snorted.  
  
“You’ve got something you want to say?” Dean demanded.  
  
“No, just -- we’re still in the exact same place we started! We don’t know anything new, and they can apparently find me whenever they freaking feel like it!”  
  
“It might have escaped your attention, but I’ve been a little  _comatose_  for the last four or five days, Sam. Which is  _entirely_  your fault. I don’t do my best work that way, and we do know something -- we know what the hell you are!”  
  
“Which does us  _no_  good,” Sam snapped back. “So I’m mostly some kind of water-sex-undead  _thing_  -- great! But unless someone is opening up a zoo for rare and unusual monsters I don’t see that getting us anywhere, Dean.”  
  
Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, that creep in the morgue when you woke up got in somehow. Maybe she’s an employee there? We can find her, and trail her.”  
  
“I tried that, she doesn’t work there.”  
  
“What do you mean you ‘tried that.’” Dean asked suspiciously. “That was the plan, remember? And then you had a close encounter with a Toyota and I took a long nap. When exactly did you ‘try that’?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “You didn’t think I sat on my ass for three days, did you?”  
  
Dean was turning interesting shades of red. “We’re trying to keep you under the radar. Do you remember the part where you’re  _dead_?! That  _morgue_  got some pretty damn good looks at you lying on a  _slab_ , Sam! What the hell were you doing anywhere near there checking out the roster!”  
  
“Chill out. I’m not some kind of master monster stalker, but I’m not a complete idiot, you know?” Sam said with exaggerated patience.  
  
“The jury’s still out on that,” Dean growled. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘cute, but dumb’?”  
  
“You think I’m cute?” Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean mumbled something, Sam rolled his eyes and continued. “You seemed to be okay; you were breathing fine and getting stronger. I parked across the street where I could see the employee lot and watched. On the second day when most of the staff had gone to lunch and I still hadn’t seen her I went in and talked to the receptionist--“  
  
“Who promptly turned white and passed out?” Dean guessed.  
  
“Who was some kind of bubbly undergrad intern I doubted spent a lot of time with the bodies, you know? I made up some story about hitting a woman’s car and feeling bad and asked if she worked there so I could leave her my insurance number. No one even close to the description is an employee.”  
  
“Then how did she get in to be skulking along in the back?”  
  
“Beats me.” Sam shrugged. “But the place isn’t exactly high security, and who knows what kind of crap she can do. Maybe she just ordered the guys up front to let her in and forget about her.”  
  
“You can  _do_  that?” Dean asked narrowly.  
  
“ _I_  can’t! But the guy who did this to me?” Sam swallowed. “Yeah... Yeah, I’m sure he could. And maybe the rest of them too. I know you think what I can do is scary, Dean, but I’m  _nothing_  compared to him.”  
  


~~~~~

  
The next couple of days were filled with more hours of library research and canvassing in the area where the party that had started the nightmare for Sam had been held, and near the lake his body had been fished out of. They didn’t really expect anything out of it, and they weren’t disappointed. Dean made an end run at the rental company responsible for the house, but other than some angry muttering about college kids and cleaning bills, they claimed to know nothing about who had been behind the break in and festivities, and certainly nothing about any of the attendees.  
  
Dean dressed in his college-journalist finest and re-interviewed all of Jessica’s friends that Sam remembered from the party. The last two that remembered seeing her both told the same story -- when they had left about an hour before dawn Jessica had been fine and Sam had been there on the couch with her, so they weren’t worried about her safety. No, they didn’t know anyone else who had been left at the house when they had departed, and no, they didn’t know how or why Sam and Jessica had ended up in a lake in the middle of the early morning downpour that had blown in. One of them had some vague idea that Sam “liked outdoorsy things,” and thought maybe a boat ride had seemed romantic.  
  
“In the middle of a  _storm_?” Dean asked incredulously.  
  
She shrugged. “You know...  _guys_.” In the same tone she might have said  _kids_. Dean rolled his eyes and thanked her.  
  
“So, now what?” Sam asked when Dean returned to the new room they had checked into. Dean gave Sam an assessing look while he shrugged out of his leather jacket. The healthy look was starting to fade around the edges. Sam’s color was definitely paler than it had been and the shadows under his eyes never really went away. But he was focused, and determined, and Dean hadn’t felt so much as a hint of his  _charm_ slipping out of control, so if Sam wasn’t going to say anything then Dean sure as hell wasn’t.  
  
“That question is getting a little old.”  
  
“Hey, you’re the expert! I’m just a motivated novice at this whole cloak-and-dagger monster hunting stuff.”  
  
Dean sat on the edge of his bed. “I don’t know. What about lunch?”  
  
“Diner or take out?”  
  
“There’s that place down the road, feel like a walk?”  
  
“Yeah, anything to stretch my legs for awhile.”  
  
They were halfway there when Dean’s gaze was drawn to the curve of Sam’s arm and just like that he was back in that motel room, remembering what that strip of skin has felt like under his tongue, what kind of noises Sam had made when Dean licked his way over to a nipple instead and bitten ever so gently -- and then not so gently at all. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Sam touched his shoulder and Dean didn’t shrug him off.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“It’s... nothing, Sam.”  
  
“It’s not nothing. Whatever it is, it seems to happen a few times a day and if you’re sick, I’d kind of like to know!  
  
“Wouldn’t my  _energy_  tell you that?” Dean snapped.  
  
Sam stepped back and frowned.  
  
“Sorry,” Dean muttered. “I’m not sick, I’m... flashing back.”  
  
“Back to what?” Sam asked, baffled.  
  
“That night! Day -- whatever. When you broke your leg and we, uh...”  
  
“I thought you didn’t remember?”  
  
“I  _don’t_ ,” Dean growled. “Not really. It’s all trapped somewhere and sometimes when I look at you, or something that reminds me, I get to relive a little piece of it.”  
  
“I’m... sorry?” Sam tried a little awkwardly.  
  
“You don’t have to be  _sorry_ ; you didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just a little distracting.”  
  
Sam’s gaze fell to Dean’s groin and Dean glared, resisting the urge to hold his hands over himself or something. It was basically all Sam’s fault anyway.  
  
“Can you walk okay or should we just lean against this building here for a few minutes?” Sam looked like he was suppressing a smile.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Dean grumbled, surreptitiously adjusting himself in his jeans. They walked along for a few more minutes in silence.  
  
“You really don’t have to be sorry,” Dean finally said. Sam gave him an inquisitive look.  
  
“Well it’s not like the memories are of horrific torture or anything! I mean, you know, it was good. What I remember of it was, uh, actually pretty fantastic. Not three days and change of  _sleeping-it-off_  fantastic, but still -- pretty hot stuff.”  
  
“Really,” Sam said, a hint of amusement in his voice.”  
  
“Yes,  _really_. If you weren’t ... what you are, I’d probably suggest we try again. Slower, with more attention to the details. Fast and frantic is good too, but you get more out of it if you take your time.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“Though I guess you got out of it everything you needed anyway.” Dean patted his pockets and frowned. Sam opened his mouth to object, then caught the look.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“My phone! I left it in my jacket.”  
  
“Do you really need it for lunch?”  
  
“I  _really need it_  in case Bobby managed to get his hands on his buddy again and has some actual information for us!”  
  
“We’re just getting lunch, Dean,” Sam frowned. “Not moving in. Half an hour won’t make a difference.”  
  
“Just go on,” Dean waved towards the restaurant. “I’ll run back and get it.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“It’s half a mile, Sam. I think I can manage. Get us a booth in the back.”  
  
Sam waved and Dean jogged back to the room. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and headed back to the diner. It had only been about five minutes and he was a little surprised not to run into Sam again on the sidewalk, but the guy had freakishly long legs and it was certainly possible that he had picked up the pace a little after Dean left and was already waiting for him. Dean jogged the rest of the way and, horrified to find himself a little breathless after only a bit more than a mile, made a fervent resolution to add a morning run to his currently somewhat sedentary lifestyle. He pushed through the diner doors and scanned the interior. The restaurant was L-shaped and he frowned when he couldn’t immediately pick Sam out in the thin crowd.  
  
“Just you for lunch?” one of the waitresses asked as she walked back the door.  
  
“I’m meeting someone, thanks.” Dean flashed her one of his best smiles. “Tall guy, jeans, kind of shaggy hair?”  
  
She returned his smile by reflex but shook her head. “Sorry, haven’t seen anyone like that around here. Feel free to walk around though, see if you can find him.”  
  
It only took a minute to check all of the booths, and less time than that to make sure Sam wasn’t in the bathroom. He scribbled his cell number down for the friendly waitress to call if Sam showed up, and then headed back outside to see if there was anywhere else he might have gone. But on Sunday afternoon most of the small shops were closed up tight. Dean stopped into the one or two that were open, but Sam hadn’t been into any of them either. At a loss, Dean finally headed back to the motel, tracing the route Sam should have taken once Dean went back for the phone.  
  
A few hundred feet from where they had parted, right where the sidewalk intersected an alley, Dean found his only clue -- Sam’s wallet, lying in the mud on the side of the road. Even if Dean hadn’t known what it looked like there wouldn’t have been any mistaking it. Sam hadn’t had any of his old ID, but there was a discount card for the pizza joint they had been frequenting, a couple of dollar bills -- and a picture of Jessica, clipped out of a newspaper and tucked carefully into the back.  
  
Dean held the wallet in one hand and looked helplessly around at the blank cement and empty storefronts. He didn’t think it had fallen accidentally; Sam had  _wanted_  him to find it. But there was only one group of people Dean knew of who would have had any interest in snatching Sam, and now that he was gone, so was Dean’s best chance to find them.  
  


~~~~~

  
“So, good news and bad news,” Dean greeted Bobby when Bobby finally picked up.  
  
“What’s the good news?” Bobby asked warily.  
  
“I’m not shacking up with Sam anymore. That’s also the bad news. Someone snatched him.”  
  
“ _Snatched him_?” Bobby repeated incredulously. “What the hell does  _that_  mean?”  
  
“I don’t know, Bobby! I guess his newfound family got tired of waiting around to see if he was going to toe the party line. One minute he was there, the next minute he’s gone.”  
  
“Are you sure he didn’t decide to run off?”  
  
“He left his wallet for me to find, and it’s not like I was keeping him chained to a radiator. Someone grabbed him off the street on the way to lunch,” Dean said tiredly.  
  
“Well, if he’s held out this long do you think they can make him kill someone?”  
  
Dean leaned against the Impala, feeling the late afternoon heat bake through his jeans. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they can.” He had to pause to wrestle a sense memory of Sam’s hand sliding over the curve of his ass before... Dean swallowed.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“I’m here. I was just saying that even if they can’t just use their magic on him anymore -- and if they could I think they damn well would have done it by now -- they can just start carving into him. Being wounded makes his hunger worse, and if he’s hurt badly enough he’s going to be completely out of his mind. He’ll latch onto whatever comes in range and the results probably won’t be survivable.”  
  
“I’ve never read anything about that with naiads and I’ve been hitting books on the subject pretty hard lately,” Bobby asked in a voice dripping with suspicion. “How did you get that information?”  
  
“You know how.”  
  
“I thought you said you were  _hit by a truck_ ,” Bobby growled, not having any trouble putting two and two together.  
  
“He was hit by a truck; I was hit by a truck -- either way I got to spend most of a week in bed recovering.”  
  
“It’s not the same thing, Dean! We have lines, and that crosses more than a couple.”  
  
“I’m not having this fight with you,” Dean said shortly. “It’s done, it’s in the past, and it was my decision. I’m a big boy now, Bobby. I’ve been keeping myself alive a long time on my own.”  
  
“Not by sleeping with the monsters you haven’t,” Bobby snapped.  
  
“Things might have gotten a ...little out of control,” Dean admitted. “But I survived. It won’t happen again. Stevros call you back yet?”  
  
Bobby sighed. “Left me a message, said he was dealing with something big and nasty and he’d get back with me as soon as he could. That was sometime last night.”  
  
“It was too much trouble to answer the phone?” Dean asked incredulously.  
  
“My date might have taken it badly at just that moment,” Bobby said dryly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Maybe we should just agree to leave this topic alone.”  
  
Dean fished the motel room key out of his pocket and headed inside. “Well, the first thing I’m doing is moving. Obviously they knew where we were and I’m against uninvited guests. And the second thing I’ll be doing is sitting on my ass waiting for your Greek buddy to find the time to pick up the goddamned phone again!”  
  
“I’m wide open for suggestions if you’ve got any, Dean,” Bobby snapped into the phone.  
  
“Just... when he calls, when you ask him if there’s anything he knows that will help us find out where these things are holed up, also ask him if he knows any charms or spells against them. It’s not going to do anyone any good if I track them down and end up the blue plate special.”  
  


~~~~~

  
Dean didn’t have much stuff to move, and Sam had almost nothing, so it took less than half an hour to clear out of one motel and settle into a different one. He parked the Impala where she couldn’t be seen from the street. He loved his baby, but freely admitted that she wasn’t the most circumspect car around and he didn’t need the monsters to be able to find him just by casually driving down the street. If they were even looking for him, which Dean supposed depended on how much information they had gotten out of Sam.  
  
The rain pounded against the glass and thunder made the building vibrate as Dean flipped slowly back through all of his notes and case information. Lightning flashed outside the window as another volley of thunder echoed in the distance. Dean stared at the morgue photos laid out in front of him and wondered if the storm that night had been anything like the one that was raging outside his room. Wondered if Jessica had had any idea of what was happening, or why. If she’d been unconscious before she went in the water or if someone, or  _something_  had held her down. He knew Sam didn’t remember drowning at all. Dean recalled what Jessica’s friend had said about the party, how Sam had been there right with Jessica when they left. He remembered what Sam had said about being helpless, and controlled, and empty, and the basic sadistic nature of the naiads so far. A horrible possibility occurred to Dean and he closed the morgue file and shoved it to the bottom of his stack. Even if his suspicion was right, it would change nothing, and he would never, ever mention it to Sam.  
  
Presuming he ever saw Sam again.  
  
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been planning to kill Sam himself; but Sam had agreed that he would rather be all the way dead than a toy for the monsters that had hurt him in the first place. And he kind of liked Sam -- when he kept his distance and Dean could forget that what lived under the skin was only sort of human. Dean definitely  _didn’t_  like the idea of what might be happening to Sam in the naiad’s hands. Even if he did find him now, odds were good that what was left wouldn’t be  _Sam_  at all anymore. The naiads had had more than enough time to rip him open and make him kill some poor victim. But there was the niggling hope that maybe they were sadistic enough to want to drag it out -- for punishment if nothing else. It felt weird to hope that someone he wanted to rescue, in whatever way he could, was being slowly tortured -- but not any more weird than caring what the hell happened to one of the monsters in the first place.  
  
Eyes burning with lack of sleep, Dean tossed the notes and files onto the floor beside the bed and lay back, letting his thoughts settle as they would until eventually he drifted off. Inside his dreams the world was blue-green and glassy, he drifted in a serene underworld of tall grass and fish that flitted by like silver streaks of light. Above him bright moonlight rippled on the surface, but he was drifting deeper, down into the shadows and the grasping undergrowth. He kicked, trying to reach the surface, but couldn’t make any headway against the inexorable drag. Light faded around him until he could barely make out one dark strand of plant from the next. The fish were bigger too, half-seen shapes weaving in and out of the darkness below him. Something brushed his shoulder and he spun.  
  
 _Dean_.  
  
Long blonde hair floated upwards towards the sky, as if struggling for air that it’s owner no longer needed. She was dressed in a pale blue dress, something summery, with thin straps and buttons on the front. It billowed up around her now, giving Dean a clear view of matching lacy panties and the lower edge of her bra. Her skin was ghostly pale and the locket around her neck gleamed like lost gold. He recognized it, of course. There was an evidence shot of it lying on a stainless steel tray in her file.  
  
Jessica Moore opened milky blue eyes and met Dean’s, he couldn’t read anything in their cloudy depths. Lips almost as grey as her skin opened and Dean waited for the revelation, waited to hear why she had brought him to this place -- was unprepared for the strange buzzing that emerged in place of words. A rush of bubbles began to stream up from below them. Dean batted them aside in irritation, trying to make sense of what she was telling him, but when he touched them they burst and blood began to seep into the clear water, obscuring his vision. His lungs burned like they had suddenly noticed the lack of air and he kicked desperately for the surface again. He felt the water break over his hands just as icy fingers wrapped around his ankle and pulled him back to the deep.  
  
 _Dean_.  
  
Dean’s eyes flew open and he gasped for air, lungs burning as if he had really been underwater. The cell phone behind him on the mattress buzzed again, letting him know he had a message. Dean squinted and looked at the clock. Two hours. Great. He stretched and picked up the phone, then frowned. He didn’t recognize the number, and that was seldom a good thing. The dream was still heavy in his mind as he flipped the phone open and froze. It was a picture, blurry and from a bad angle but it looked to be the side of a house. Fairly generic, he could only see some brown siding and a window with the shades pulled. Some low bushes... nothing remarkable. He stood up and looked out the window where the storm seemed to have blown itself out. Same time of day. If it was local, then it had been taken probably right before it was sent. Dean dialed the number, but there was no answer. He dialed again and this time after a few rings a woman answered.  
  
“Hello?” In the background he could hear other people talking and a faint muffled, naggingly familiar, sound. “Hello?” she repeated after a couple of seconds.  
  
“Who is this?” Dean demanded.  
  
“Well, that depends on who this is now doesn’t it?” Her tones were flirtatious but the effect was lost on Dean. He was starting to have a suspicion about what was going on.  
  
“No one, I think I just dialed a wrong number. Sorry to bother you.”  
  
“Hang on,” she said. Dean heard a faint rustling.  
  
“Oh my,” she said aloud after a moment, not talking into the phone. “Someone’s been a very bad boy. That was very clever of you, though. Too bad you didn’t have more time, you might have been able to send him something useful.” The muffled sound was louder and Dean had enough experience with being gagged, and gagging others, to understand what it was now.  
  
“Who are you?” she asked Dean, speaking into the phone again. She sounded more curious than upset.  
  
“You don’t need to worry about who I am. Let me talk to Sam.”  
  
She laughed and the next thing Dean heard was a dial tone. He tried calling back repeatedly, but after twenty minutes was interrupted by an incoming call.  
  
“WHAT?” he yelled.  
  
“Dean? What pissed in your Wheaties?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Sorry, Bobby. Bad timing.”  
  
“You want me to call back?”  
  
Dean groaned and threw himself in one of the chairs. It creaked alarmingly under his weight and he figured having the furniture collapse under him would be the perfect punch line to a shitty hour. “No. I just... I think Sam got his hands on a cell phone long enough to send me a picture. But it’s a crappy picture, it doesn’t tell me anything. Just the side of a house. I mean, I think it’s a house. It could be a business or something too. But probably residential. That’s it. And they grabbed him almost--" he checked his watch, “three hours ago. You have any idea how wide the search area is with that much travel time?”  
  
“You call the number back?”  
  
Dean snorted. “What the hell do you think I was doing when you called? Some bitch answered the phone. I could hear Sam in the background, well I assume it was Sam. There was someone gagged making an awful lot of unhappy noises. She found the picture, wanted to know who I was.”  
  
“This woman sound pissed about Sam sending the photo?”  
  
“No, she seemed to think it was funny more than anything. Like I said, the picture is practically worthless.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah,  _exactly_. I wish he could have gotten a picture of a street sign or a license plate!”  
  
“Give me the number, I’ll see what I can find out about it.”  
  
Dean rattled it off. “So, what did you call for anyway?”  
  
“Stevros turned back up. We had a nice talk about Greek water monsters, thought you might want an update.”  
  
“Anything that might help me find them?”  
  
“Maybe.” Dean could hear the rustle of papers over the phone lines. “Stevros says naiads cluster around bodies of water. Full ones, the ones  _not_  in transition, need a natural stream or pond or something, maybe a--"  
  
“Lake?” Dean cut in. “Like where Sam drowned?”  
  
“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking too. But didn’t you guys check that out?”  
  
“Sam checked before we met, and then I went through all the property records within a few blocks. Half of it is on state park lands, but the rest backs up to miles of residential streets. We drove around too, but it’s not like anyone had a sign out reading ‘ancient Greek monsters, inquire within,’ you know?”  
  
“Nothing in the property records?”  
  
“Nothing suspicious. A few rental properties. We dressed up and banged on a few doors -- got squat for leads. Sam doesn’t remember anything. If they’re there, I couldn’t find them.”  
  
Bobby kept talking, but Dean tuned him out. Something, something... Jessica’s dead eyes.  
  
 _Dean._  
  
“The picture,” he said aloud, interrupting whatever Bobby was saying about climate and life span.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The--" Dean pulled the phone away from his head and frantically checked to make sure the poorly focused, badly angled picture was still on his phone. “The picture Sam sent!”  
  
“I thought you said it was worthless.”  
  
“If I have to canvass the entire freaking state -- but if they’re in that neighborhood I’ve got them! You said they need a natural water source, right? They drowned Sam as part of their ritual-of-whatever. Wouldn’t they want to do that where they had their base? I didn’t think about it when I got the pic because  _Sam_  didn’t seem to feel any special attachment to water, and we’d already worn out our shoe leather canvassing the area. But he  _wouldn’t_  feel it; he hasn’t earned all his badges yet. They’re there, Bobby. We were freaking right the first time. We just didn’t know how to find them.”  
  
“You can’t be sure,” Bobby voice was cautious.  
  
The glint of moonlight through water and skin bleached grey by death. “I’m sure,” Dean heard himself say. “They’re there. And I’ve got everything I need to torch their undead asses now.”  
  
“I can be there by noon tomorrow.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Don’t you even start that with me, Dean. You need back-up, and there’s no one around to help you. They’ve been killing people for months, you can wait nine freaking hours.”  
  
“I can, Sam can’t.”  
  
“Sam’s probably already lost! I don’t want to lose  _both_  of you.”  
  
“'Probably’?” Dean asked sharply. “What  _did_  Stevros say about that? About Sam and the undead-half-state-thing he’s got going on?”  
  
“He said it’s highly unlikely that it can be reversed,” Bobby snapped in agitation.  
  
Dean sat up straight. “’Highly unlikely,’ sounds like ‘maybe’ to me, Bobby. I thought he was some kind of naiad expert, how does he not  _know_?!”  
  
“He never rescued anyone. He doesn’t know anyone who has,” Bobby said simply. “He said it’s always someone’s mother’s-uncle’s-cousin’s-best-friend’s-little-sister or something like that.”  
  
“So... maybe?”  
  
Bobby exhaled heavily. “Maybe. But they’ve already had him for hours, Dean. It took one of them less than five  _minutes_  to get him hurt badly enough that it sounds like he half-killed you! You think there’s any chance you can reach him in time? You don’t even know where he is!”  
  
“I know where to look. What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean asked suspiciously. “This is your  _son_ , we’re talking about -- you want me to wait  _nine_  hours before I go and try and rescue him? I might be able to _really_  save him, Bobby. Not just take him away from them and give him a merciful end. That isn’t worth a little risk?”  
  
The hesitation on the other end of the line was almost palpable.  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?” Dean demanded.  
  
“There’s a charm, Dean. Something pretty basic you can whip up in about five minutes that should keep you safe from most naiads as long as you don’t smear it or anything. But... it might not save you from Sam.”  
  
Dean frowned. “Because he’s not really transformed yet?”  
  
“You know that saying, ‘you always hurt the ones you love’?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said cautiously.  
  
“Well, naiads take that kind of literally. The most vulnerable people in the world to a naiad's charms are close blood-relatives. They can roll them like cheap drunks. Stevros thinks maybe it’s kind of a defensive thing, they can use their human families like shields and for ready food supplies in an emergency, and no one is suspicious because outside everything looks fine. His logic is a little fuzzy, but he swears to God it’s true.”  
  
“Why are you telling me this, Bobby?” There was a sick, sinking feeling deep in his gut.  
  
“So...,” Bobby began after a moment of hesitation. “You remember that shiftless hunter who dropped his kid off with me?”  
  
Dean sat down heavily. “You had better be kidding me, Bobby. This had better be your idea of a goddamned joke! I don’t  _have_  a brother -- are you saying my dad knocked up one of his lady friends back when we were roaming around the country?”  
  
“I’m saying that when that fire burned down every vestige of his old life, the very first thing your father did was hand your infant brother over to Pastor Jim. And when he got to trusting me and Jim wasn’t really up to the whole child-minding thing, gave him over to me. I gave him to my sister -- her kids were all grown and she was a sucker for strays... and that’s kinda that.”  
  
“Why?” Dean exploded, mind still refusing to accept what Bobby was telling him, and yet... He remembered the nagging feeling of loss he had carried when he was younger, like something was missing. He’d outgrown it with adolescence, but remembered what it had been like. That empty place, being certain someone should have been filling it. John had always told Dean it was his mother’s place. That Mary’s death had left that hole. The explanation had made sense, but never felt quite right. He remembered so very little from the fire, but in his nightmares... sometimes a baby cried. “Why the hell would he do that to me? To _us_? I grew up on the road! Sam could have come along too. How much harder would it have been! He could have at least  _told_  me. Even if he lived with your sister, we could have known about each other.” Another thought occurred and brought with it the memory flash of how Sam’s hand had felt wrapped around his dick. He sucked in a harsh breath. “Jesus. Did  _Sam_  know?”  
  
“No,” Bobby said sharply. “He doesn’t know either, Dean."  
  
That made Dean feel marginally better. He wasn’t sure how he felt about  _incest_  yet, however unintentional, but at least Sam hadn’t been sitting on this kind of secret the whole time they’d been sharing a room.  
  
“Why?” Dean repeated harshly.  
  
“He wouldn’t tell me, Dean,” Bobby said heavily. “Just that he needed a safe place for Sam. That he didn’t want him to be a hunter, or involved in this life at all. He wanted him to be normal, to be  _safe_. Those were his exact words.”  
  
“He wanted  _him_  to be safe,” Dean said bitterly. “Guess that didn’t work out so hot for dad now did it?”  
  
“Dean, I have no idea why your dad did what he did. But he loved you, you lived with the man. You can’t seriously doubt that!”  
  
“I... don’t know what to think, Bobby. How he could he lie about this? I have a  _brother_!” Dean glanced at his watch and swore. “Who right now is probably being tortured into a monster. Do you have any good news before I take off?”  
  
“You’re going to be more vulnerable to Sam--"  
  
“No news flash there,” Dean muttered.  
  
Bobby ignored the comment. “But you’re going to be practically immune to the others.”  
  
“Immune?” Dean repeated with interest.  
  
“Right. Now, you’ve got your herb kit in the trunk? I want you to write down this charm.”  
  
“Why? I’m immune to the nasty little water creeps, and you said the charm won’t work against Sam.”  
  
“I said it  _probably_  won’t work,” Bobby correctly gruffly. “ Not all the way at least. But if you’re determined to do this the stupid way, alone, you can at least  _try_  to stack the deck in your favor.”  
  
“Fine. But it better be a short spell, because I’m already out of time.” The first hints of a shaky plan were already starting to pull together in the back of his mind. “And I still have shopping to do.”  
  
  


** Section Four **

  
It took Dean less than two hours to draw Bobby’s charm in grease pen over his heart, grab a couple of items from the store, and find the house. It was ridiculously easy with the picture. All he had to do was pick the end of the lake with the largest lots and the fewest houses, then get as close to the water as he could and drive slow. It was the fourth house he passed. Brown siding, low shrubbery, and he could see the window from the photo near the driveway. Tall bushes and dense scrub blocked the view of any of the neighbors and Dean could see the lake on the other side of the property. Unless someone was on the street or maybe on the water, whoever, or  _whatever_  was inhabiting the house would have total privacy.  
  
His instincts said to case the place. To wait until nightfall and sneak around. But it had already been six hours, if Sam was even still human at all there was no way of knowing how much time he had left. Bobby’s-friend-the-naiad-hunter thought there was a chance, and Dean was going to take it.  
  
No matter how bad his plan was.  
  
Bobby had told him that according to Stevros the accepted way to hunt lone naiads was a rifle shot from a distance to the head to incapacitate, then a pyre to finish the job. It wasn’t a strategy that would work so well in a group, even if he could get a clear shot at the monster in charge. So he was going to improvise, and pray really hard that they were as arrogant and careless as so many of the other things he hunted had proved to be.  
  
Out in the yard a pretty woman in shorts and a tank top was watering the landscaping. Dean parked the Impala half a block away, shouldered his backpack, and then crept down the street -- he made it around the bushes on the edge of the property and up behind the van parked in the driveway. The sound of the hose continued unabated and Dean wondered if he was going to have to run with plan B at all, or if Plan A was actually going to get him to his goal. They were supposed to be sensitive to intention; maybe since his only intention was Sam they would somehow miss his presence...  
  
The house was old and the window casements ancient. Dean slipped the blade of his pocket knife into the gap beneath one, trying to slide the lock open when he felt it -- a sizzling wave of  _something_  that brushed against his skin like a sensual caress. It felt like what he had experienced with Sam, except that instead of sinking into his bones and clouding his thoughts it just melted around him. He was  _aware_  of it, but unphased. “Score one for Stevros,” Dean mumbled, freezing in place just as a hand landed on his shoulder.  
  
“Can I help you?”  
  
Dean turned around and didn’t have to do much acting to pull off stunned. She had been nice looking from a distance, but up close was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Curvy and slim, with full breasts and tanned skin that just couldn’t be as soft as it looked. Her eyes were the exact blue of the sky and blonde hair that had never seen a dye bottle was pulled up into a messy ponytail. She grinned at his expression.  
  
“Hello? Do you have a name?”  
  
Fortunately, Dean was supposed to be enthralled and didn’t need to put much effort into his answer. “Ummmm...” Had there been more with Sam? He didn’t remember clearly.  
  
Her smile grew a touch colder and Dean could see something shift in the back of her eyes. Something predatory and ...inhuman.  
  
“How about I name you then?”  
  
“Yeah... okay,” Dean said slowly, as if trying to pull thoughts from the fog his mind should have been.  
  
“We were just about to have to go find take-out, but now that you’re here -- you don’t mind if I call you lunch, do you?”  
  
Dean shook his head, staring at her in mock adoration. She reached out and brushed his cheek with her hand. Dean nuzzled into it, skin crawling with revulsion.  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
He obediently followed her inside.  
  


~~~~~

  
The interior of the house was the complete opposite of the exterior. Where the front it presented to the world was plain, serviceable, and unremarkable, inside it was a lavish ode to decadence. Ornate tiles and rich hardwoods covered the floor, and floor-to-ceiling drapes in heavy velvet were swept back revealing the plain, wooden blinds in the front of the house, and in the back an expansive view of a terraced yard leading right down to the water's edge. Water lilies and other plants Dean had no name for drifted in a dark pond just beyond the glass that seemed to be connected to an in-ground pool. Carved wooden couches looked plush and inviting and the walls were decoratively plastered with a molded fresco Dean couldn’t quite make out.  
  
“Sit there,” the woman pointed to one of the couches, then ruffled his hair affectionately when he obediently did as directed. “I’ll go see if they need you yet.”  
  
The couch was just as comfortable as it had looked. It was a shame he was going to have to burn it all down. The woman walked to the far end of the room and knocked lightly on the double doors there. When she pushed one side open Dean heard a sharp crack and a cry of pain. He didn’t know if it was Sam or not, but hoped so -- if he was being tortured, then he was probably still holding out. The woman looked back at him and he forced a bland smile on his face, figuring she would expect no reaction from someone under her spell. It seemed to satisfy her, because she slipped inside, leaving the door open. Dean couldn’t see anything in the room, but heard the low murmur of a male voice and felt a vicious sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t Sam speaking, that timbre he knew -- so it could only be the ringleader of this merry band of murderer’s. And then he felt it, a low roiling  _something_  that seemed to creep into the room like a mindless, living presence. It brushed over him, and then sank in. Dean sucked in a breath, but as quickly as it had touched him it recoiled. He was still aware of it though, and he had no doubt it was aware of him. It waited, hovering,  _wanting_  him.  
  
 _Sam, hang on_.  
  
It was definitely Sam,  _his brother_  in that room, and Dean was considering just getting up and following the blonde in when he felt another wave roll against his skin, as if his clothes didn’t even exist. This one wasn’t the mindless hunger, but raised all the fine hairs on his neck in wariness all the same. It was just as sensual, and electric, as the blonde’s had been, but where her  _aura_  had been warmth and sunshine this one was a cool evening air. He had the distinct impression whoever it belonged to was pissed. Dean hadn’t even heard its owner come up behind him, but he recognized her voice immediately. “Who are you?”  
  
Dean said nothing, swearing silently to himself. If he knew her voice, she would almost certainly remember his from their brief, abbreviated phone call earlier. Slender fingers grabbed hold of his jaw and wrenched his head around. “Who. Are. You?” The speaker was just as lovely as the first woman was, as long as he didn’t look into her eyes. Swimming in their depths was the same predator, the same ...alienness, as in the blonde’s. But this one was making no effort to disguise it.  
  
“Lunch,” Dean offered in a dazed tone, hoping the brevity of the answer would keep her from remembering where she had heard his voice before.  
  
It seemed to work, she released him as if burned and stalked around the couch and across the room, giving Dean an excellent view of her long legs, stiletto heels, and... just about everything else since she was only wearing what could generously be called a chemise. “Helen!”  
  
The blonde, Helen? returned and pulled the door closed behind her.  
  
“Who is this?” The newcomer demanded to know.  
  
Helen looked at him. “I don’t know,“ she shrugged. “He was trying to climb in through the window, I thought we could use him,” she gestured towards the double doors.  
  
New Girl’s brows drew together alarmingly. “He was trying to break in and you didn’t even ask his name?!”  
  
“It’s not like it’s going to matter for much longer.” Helen smiled at him. Dean smiled back. No, it wasn’t.  
  
“What does he have in his bag?”  
  
Helen shrugged again. New Girl gave Helen a truly withering look. “Go upstairs, get Gabrielle, Lucille, Wendy, and Eliza and tell them to start packing up. As soon as Andrew is done with our brother, we’re leaving. I’m getting bad feelings about this town.”  
  
You have no idea, Dean thought viciously. Both women looked at him sharply. Dean tried to focus again on bland and appreciating Helen’s assets.  
  
“What did you say your name was again?” New Girl asked him slowly. “Before it was Lunch, what did people call you?”  
  
“Todd Adams,” Dean answered equally slowly, as if struggling to remember. He wasn’t so lucky a second time on the memory game. She stared at him for a minute and then spit out a string of curses that raised a feeling of actual admiration in Dean’s chest. Too bad she was an undead people-eating monster.  
  
“This is the man that called earlier, the one Sam was trying to contact,” New Girl explained to Helen. “Did he say anything before you decided to name him lunch?”  
  
Helen’s blue eyes grew wide. “No, I thought he was just... you know, a burglar or something.”  
  
“You’re an idiot,” New Girl said flatly. Dean had to agree.  
  
“We can tie him up, I’ll let him go and then we can question him?” Helen suggested.  
  
“No, he can stay like this for now” New Girl decided. “Go tell our sisters what I said. I’ll ask Andrew what he wants to do.”  
  
Helen glanced towards the door, an oddly hungry expression stealing across her otherwise lovely face. “How much longer do you think this will take?”  
  
New Girl gave a most unladylike snort. “Until Andrew gets bored. It could be over in five minutes, or five days. Our new brother is unbelievably stubborn. He’ll come around once it’s over though. Everyone does.”  
  
“I’ve never had a brother,” Helen said, still eyeing the door. “Do you think he’ll be generous? Or hog all the good prey for himself like Andrew does?”  
  
“I think you will do what he says and be grateful.”  
  
“Of course, but... maybe he’ll have a different favorite...” Helen’s eyes were sharp with malice as she glanced at her sister on the couch. New Girl seemed unconcerned.  
  
“I gave you a direction. Tell your pet to do what I say before you go.”  
  
Helen heaved a sigh, an impressive sight, and brushed Dean’s cheek with her hand again. The return of her full attention was like the sun coming up. Dean didn’t want to even think about what this would be like if he  _wasn’t_  immune.  
  
“You’re going to sit here like a good boy and do what Krystal says now, right?” Dean could actually  _hear_  the “k” in Helen’s voice. He nodded at her.  
  
She left without another word. So now the only thing between Dean and getting in that room was Krystal, who was about half his size -- if that. Before Dean could grab her with the vague intention of snapping her neck, Krystal picked up his backpack, glanced at the zippers, and then just casually ripped a hole in the leather with her dainty, delicate fingers so that she could investigate the contents.  
  
So, maybe not with the whole grabbing thing.  
  
Krystal pulled out one of the bottles of beer and looked it over. Dean began some of the most fervent praying of his life as she tilted the bottle first one way, and then the other as if deciding whether she wanted to try it or not.  
  
“Is  _this_  why you were looking for Sam?” she asked after a moment of contemplation. “You had some kind of...” a slow smile curved her lips, “date? Ply him with a little alcohol, get into his pants?”  
  
And of  _course_  the undead sex fiend leaped directly to that conclusion. On the other hand, it was probably as good as any other for why Dean would be chasing around after Sam, desperate enough to find him based on one cruddy cell phone picture, and carrying a backpack full of what looked like beer. Certainly it was the most  _useful_  interpretation. He nodded solemnly.  
  
He smile faded. “Are you lying to me?”  
  
Dean felt the first hint of panic, but before he could protest his innocence, one of the double doors opened again and a man stepped out. He looked about thirty and his sandy hair was artfully tousled. His body had all the chiseled tone that legions of men strived for every day in gyms across the country, and wherever he came from originally wasn’t a place that believed in circumcision -- which Dean could see because he was also stark naked, a look he apparently enjoyed since his tan didn’t show any signs of being broken up by swim trunks.  
  
“Andrew,” Krystal greeted.  
  
Andrew stretched languorously and gave a lazy hand wave. “Is that the new toy Helen found?”  
  
Krystal frowned and glanced at Dean again. “Yes, but... something’s off about him. Sam tried to contact him earlier, and Helen caught him trying to breaking into the house.”  
  
Andrew crossed the room with an easy, confident strut. Ahead of him like a furnace of allure rolled the wave that Dean had expected. And like with the women, it brushed over his skin and slid past. Dean focused all of his attention immediately on Andrew as he approached. Closer and he could see that the monster’s sculpted body was spattered by blood and slick with sweat. Dean let his eyes go wide and soft as he cautiously invited in that feral, hungry  _thing_  that hovered all around him. Just a little, just enough. With his permission, it bled through the edges of the charm like it was at home in his skin. Dean’s gasp was genuine as the familiar burn settled into him gingerly. He felt his cock swell in his jeans and let the arousal show clearly on his face, trying hard to hold Andrew in his mind while Sam filled his body. Andrew reached out and touched where Helen had earlier, but his grip was more sure and his gaze more searching. After a long moment Andrew’s intent expression relaxed and he leaned in, firm lips brushed Dean’s and Dean obediently opened his mouth, feigning desire in the enthusiasm of the kiss.  
  
Andrew tasted like blood, and death.  
  
When he pulled back Dean was breathless, mouth swollen, and keeping Andrew in his thoughts wasn’t quite the chore it had been. He supposed that was what a few thousand years of seducing and killing did for your oral skills. Andrew gave him another long look, then turned to Krystal.  
  
“Bring him.”  
  
“But what about...”  
  
“It doesn’t matter," Andre cut her off dismissively. "We’re leaving within the hour. I think this will be the last toy we will break -- if he means something to Sam, so much the better. Apparently publicly ending his life and killing his woman was not enough to teach him that the things in his old, pathetic, existence were better abandoned. Perhaps this will -- but either way, my patience is at an end.”  
  
Andrew gave Dean a smile that had probably broken a thousand hearts. “It’s a shame, really. If Sam hadn’t come to hand I might have considered this one. He has a certain air about him I find... quite attractive.” He shrugged and headed back to the room. In his wake, Krystal glowered at Dean and chewed a nail, clearly still not happy about him.  
  
“Krystal.”  
  
She looked up at her master’s voice, then gave Dean a curt gesture. “Let’s go.”  
  
Dean gathered up his backpack and made to follow.  
  
“No,” she said, exasperated. “Leave that here, you don’t need that anymore.”  
  
Dean set the pack down on the couch again as Krystal turned and continued on. He managed to tuck one bottle into the back of his pants, and followed in her wake.  
  
If he did it right, he only needed one.  
  


~~~~~

  
Inside the room was as bad as anything Dean has ever seen. In the center of the room, a low chair sat on the marble floor, and cushions in shades of blues and green littered the stone. Two bodies, young women, lay sprawled near the door, eyes open and staring. Another two lay haphazardly against the wall where it looked like they had been dragged. One of those was male, but both were young, and obviously dead. Another female corpse was still in the middle of the room, her legs splayed and eyes still glassy with recent death. All of the bodies looked like they had been tortured in some way before they had died, but he knew it wasn’t the torture that had killed them.  
  
What had killed them took a graceful seat in the low chair and smiled at the only living thing in the room that Dean particularly cared about.  
  
Sam.  
  
A Sam that Dean hardly recognized at first, his skin was paler, and more sunken than Dean had seen before, and his naked body was covered in long, thin cuts. Some of them, Dean knew, matched the coiled whip lying beside the chair Andrew lounged in like a king overseeing his vassals, other were probably the marks of blades. A few looked to be more ragged than either weapon would usually inflict, and Dean remembered the ease with which Krystal had ripped through leather with a hint of queasiness. A metal collar chained to a bolt set into the wall held Sam restrained where he knelt, like some kind of fucking pet.  
  
Dean had almost staggered as he entered the room. The sense of Sam, and Sam’s bare grip on himself and his instinct was a living thing roiling about his skin, much more powerful and aware in the room where it originated. Dean felt the greasepaint on his chest begin to run as the charm began to dissolve under the weight of Sam’s... hunger, and knew that the hold Sam was maintaining was even thinner than he imagined. Once the charm was gone, Dean likely would be too. Any pain he caused himself strong enough to cut through what he could feel building would probably also be debilitating. He met Sam’s eyes across the charnel mess. Sam stared in seeming disbelief, though Dean knew he would have had to have been aware of his presence for at least ten minutes. Dean had certainly been aware of his.  
  
Maybe Sam just hadn’t believed what he’d felt.  
  
Sam blinked, glanced at the wall by Dean’s head, then met his eyes again. Dean casually glanced that way and saw the key hanging on a leather strap.  
  
Good to know.  
  
It was about to be important.  
  
Krystal walked with a dancer's grace across the floor towards Andrew. Dean reached behind himself and carefully unscrewed the bottle cap, then pulled a rag out of his back pocket and stuffed it into the bottle neck. The rag would stop the reek of the gasoline fumes from reaching sensitive noses until he made his move.  
  
“So, stranger -- Krystal thinks you know our Sam here?” Andrew asked with that same stunning smile, as if all the blood and the bodies and the evidence of pain were just casual decorations. Dean met Sam’s eyes across the room again. He hoped he was right about killing the master, because otherwise nothing was going to walk out of the room alive. Already he could feel the haze of Sam’s nature seeping past the failing charm. Krystal stepped over a last cushion and stood so close to Andrew that the filmy edge of her clothes brushed his hand. Sam looked desperately back at him. Dean smiled.  
  
“Of course I know him, he’s my brother.”  
  
He let that phrase hang in the air for one second. Just long enough for Andrew and Krystal to understand and realize the implications. One second to feel a fraction of the panic and fear they had inflicted on Sam. Not nearly enough payment for all the lives they had destroyed. But one second was all Dean could give them, that one second -- and one thing more.  
  
He slid his (their) father’s lighter from his jeans pocket and lit the rag stuffed into the end of the bottle in the same smooth gesture, then hurled it as hard as he could at Andrew on his throne.  
  
Krystal, unfortunately, flung herself clear at the last moment, but Andrew went up with all the fury and fire that Dean could have hoped for. Human flesh didn’t burn like that, it was as if his very skin was made of gasoline vapors. Dean wrenched his gaze away, gagging in the sickeningly sweet stench that was filling the room. He ripped the key from the hook and stumbled across the room.  
  
“No!” Sam yelled, scooting backwards away from him. He was squinting against the brilliant blaze of Andrew writhing in the center of the room. Sweat was pouring into Dean’s eyes and he knew they had to get out. Cushions under Andrew’s body caught fire and Dean lunged impatiently for Sam who had reached the end of the chain.  
  
“No! Don’t  _touch_  me!” Sam screamed at him. Dean froze. Krystal gave a strangled yelp and Dean spun to see her entire body just  _melt_  into clear water, it started to crackle and hiss where it pooled into the edge of what was left of Andrews’s crumbling corpse. Behind him, Sam made a faint sound and Dean turned back just in time to see Sam go limp against the chain as his eyes rolled up and a violent seizure wracked his body. Dean coughed harshly and pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose to try and cut some of the stinging smoke.  
  
On the floor, Sam went suddenly limp, and then water began to run from his nose and mouth. Dean felt his heart sink, but as quickly as it had begun, the water stopped. And Sam was still there. Fumbling fingers unlocked the collar and Dean could feel his muscles groan as he hoisted Sam up onto his back. Then, somehow, he was through the door and out into the blissful coolness of the main room. A room that was already filling with smoke from the antechamber as the fire continued to spread. Dean made for the front door and damn anyone who saw them, sidestepping another pool of water that seemed to have formed around a pair of denim shorts and a suspiciously familiar halter top. Somehow, they made the car, and then they were gone into the growing evening gloom.  
  


~~~~~

  
By the time they reached the motel Sam was conscious again, if still somewhat unaware and speaking only in slurred, unintelligible sounds. But he was able to carry his own weight into the room, and helped a little as Dean herded him into the shower to scrub the blood and soot from his skin. The cuts and wounds were all gone, as was the corpselike cast to his features and the horrible pallor. He looked like  _Sam_  again. The Sam in the picture, and the Sam that Dean had known for those few days after he had nearly died in a spontaneous act of sex -- which was really something he didn’t want on his tombstone. Dean couldn’t feel that insidious pull from Sam either, not when he helped him from the car, and not when he dragged a washcloth over bare, soapy skin. Not even an echo of the flashbacks he’d been having. Sam was practically asleep on his feet, so Dean dried him off and dressed him in a t-shirt and boxers, then tucked him into bed so he could go and take his own damn shower.  
  
He didn’t feel anything but a fine and burning rage about what had happened at the house. Five more people had died, and he had been too late to save them.  
  
But he hadn’t been too late to save Sam.  
  
He hoped.  
  
“How do I tell?” he asked Bobby later in a low voice while Sam lay deep in slumber on the bed. “He could practically pass for human before, how do I tell if he’s really cured, or if he’s just... the same?”  
  
“They go up like torches,” Bobby said quietly. “Stevros says they can’t even smoke without risking death. It was one of the ways they could pick them out back in the day -- they were the only ones in Greece who didn’t have a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. I think he was kidding, but you get the idea.”  
  
Dean hung up and flicked the lighter. He held the flame close to Sam’s arm and Sam muttered and shifted in his sleep, pulling away. Dean grabbed his arm back and tried again, this time Sam’s lids fluttered up and he mumbled a protest.  
  
“Hold still,” Dean ordered. Something in his voice must have cut through Sam’s exhaustion, because after a glance between the lighter and Dean’s face, he relaxed into Dean’s grip and held still. His eyes were wet with tears of pain by the time Dean released him, satisfied. Dean dressed the burn and waited by the bed until he was sure Sam was fast asleep, then called Bobby back.  
  
“He’s human,” Dean said, relief thick enough to cut in his voice.  
  
“You’re certain?” Bobby’s voice was tight with restraint.  
  
“Well, he’s not going to be real thrilled about the burn when he wakes up, but better a burn than a burning. He’s not anymore flammable than I am, and that... pull, it’s all gone too.”  
  
Bobby released a breath like he had been holding it for a year. “Thank God. Bring him home,” he ordered. “He’s got no business out there now. Even if he walked into a police station and proved he was alive all they would do is try to pin that poor girl’s death on him probably. There’s nothing for him in California.”  
  
Dean agreed, but thought Sam had probably had enough of other people trying to run his life for him for awhile. Or unlife -- whatever. “I’ll try,” was all Dean promised.  
  


~~~~~

  
Sam, as it turned out, didn’t take much convincing. He woke up with the sunrise and tore ravenously into the food stuffs Dean usually accumulated when he was holed up somewhere for awhile. Dean looked him over while he steadily ate his way through five packages of applesauce, three oranges, a box of raisins and a can of cold ravioli. Sam seemed physically none the worse for wear. Just tired, and that was completely understandable.  
  
There were shadows in his eyes too, but they weren’t the sort erased by a few good nights of sleep. They would fade with time, or with nothing. Dean knew a lot about that kind of baggage, and knew there wasn’t a lot anyone could do for you about it. It was just something you had to deal with.  
  
Alcohol helped. But he doubted Sam would be up to visiting any bars anytime soon.  
  
Dean carefully laid out Bobby’s argument on dragging Sam to South Dakota, and raised an eyebrow when Sam only nodded and asked, “Are we leaving soon?”  
  
“You sure that’s what you want to do?” Dean asked.  
  
“He’s right -- I’ve got nothing here. What would I tell people -- that I woke up in the morgue, staggered out, decided to play pool for about a month, then got bored and headed back to my apartment? I’d sound like a head case at best, and a murder suspect at worst." He scowled. "I don’t want to be here anymore! Every street is a reminder of what they did to me. And I couldn’t be on campus without seeing her face around every corner. I don’t want to deal with it, and I don’t have to. Not here.”  
  
“What are you going to do instead? I thought the idea was that you were going to be some big shot lawyer -- pretty sure you need more than two or three years of college for that, Sam.”  
  
“I’m going to Bobby’s, and I’m going to sleep for a month. And then I’m going to learn this hunting thing that you and he do,” Sam said, determination hard in his eyes.  
  
Dean felt like an idiot for not seeing that one coming.  
  
“Sam, this life is a rough one. No one  _chooses_  it, it--"  
  
“Chooses them?” Sam suggested. “What do you call this Dean if not a freaking  _wake-up call_? I can’t sit on my ass in a cushy nine-to-five knowing things like this are out there. Do you know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come in just then? Do you have  _any_  idea what I would have become?”  
  
“You need to take half the credit for that, if it wasn’t for that picture you sent I would never have found the place.” A pause. “I saw the room, Sam."  
  
“She left her purse on the floor and I got a hand out of the rope, it was chance,” Sam said darkly. “And you didn’t see  _anything_. I was there, Dean -- I watched every second of it. They brought them in one at a time, and told me they were going to die. Either I could kill them and it would be fast, or  _he_  could kill them and it would be slow. He tortured five people almost to death in front of me, and then raped them to finish it off. That  _would have been me_.” Sam’s voice was almost breathless, the plastic spoon snapped in his hand. Dean reached and pulled it gently from his grip.  
  
“I’m going to take you home. Then... if you still want to be a hunter, and Bobby won’t teach you, I will.” And his father be damned.  
  
Sam grabbed his wrist. “Promise?”  
  
“I swear.”  
  
That seemed to release something, Sam’s shoulder slumped and some of the nervous energy that had been humming in him dissipated. “Okay. Okay, then. Can I borrow your phone for a few minutes? I want to give Bobby a call.”  
  
Dean handed it to him. “I’m going to load the car. I’ll knock before I come back in, give you some privacy.”  
  
Sam gave him a hint of a genuine smile. “Thanks.”  
  


~~~~~

  
“So,” Sam began hours and miles later as they passed out of California and into the wide open spaces of the rest of the world. He popped the Metallica album out of the tape deck. “What you said in there, about being my brother...”  
  
“I know you talked to Bobby,” Dean pointed out dryly. “Did you ask him?”  
  
Sam crossed his arms and stared moodily out the windshield. “He told me some bullshit about  _our father_  and a promise.”  
  
“That’s what I got too.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “I don’t even know what to do with that.”  
  
Dean shrugged and leaned to fish under Sam’s seat for his tape box. “Why do anything with it? We’re the same people we were this morning, and yesterday, and the week before, and the week before that--"  
  
“When we had sex,” Sam interrupted him. “We’re the same people we were then, Dean?”  
  
“Nothing that we know now would have changed what happened then, Sam,” Dean said firmly. “You were still screwed up and falling apart and I was still... convenient. It’s not like we were gonna knock each other up, you know? You think I would have let you hurt someone, or that you would have been able to hold back just because we knew about our little family resemblance?” Dean demanded. “Hell, I still don’t even remember most of what happened!”  
  
“You almost died that night,” Sam snapped. “I almost  _killed_  you. And what about... you know. If I  _hadn’t_  turned back, if I was going to stay that way -- would you still have been able to destroy me as easily as you planned too?”  
  
“Finishing you off was  _never_  going to be that easy,” Dean said grimly. “Because of Bobby if nothing else. But if I knew you were my brother? You’re damn straight I could have done it. It’s what I would have wanted you to do for me. You don’t leave  _family_  walking around like carrion, no matter how sweet the stench.” His voice lost some of its edge. “I was going to save you Sam, one way or the other. If you can’t handle that, then you need to rethink this whole hunting thing, because there’s a much better chance a hunter dies by violence than in bed of old age. Like ninety-nine to one -- got it? This isn’t the college joyride here.”  
  
“Yeah, we see how well that  _joyride_  went for me.”  
  
Dean didn’t have anything to say to that and an awkward kind of silence filled the air between them. He endured for about five minutes, and then reached to shove his tape into the player. Sam pulled it from his fingers before he could push it in.  
  
“You wanted to,” Sam said in a low voice. Dean caught the sidelong glance Sam gave him and gave an inward groan. He knew  _exactly_  what Sam was talking about.  
  
“I was screwed up, Sam. Yeah, you’re hot. And yeah, I go for the occasional guy -- but it’s not like I’m lusting at your heels or anything. I was having all these flashbacks, and they were irritating as hell, but also... you know what you were. If you’d come up to me in a bar and tried to pick me up, for real -- not like you actually did,” Dean added dryly, “I probably would have gone with you.”  
  
Sam seemed to digest that.  
  
“What about you?” Dean asked curiously. “I know you had Jess and all, but, uh -- did you ever switch it up sometimes? Before?”  
  
“Are you asking if I would have dated a guy if it had just been preference and not all the other crap I was dealing with?”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean frowned and checked his rearview mirror for cops, then inched the pedal down a little more. You couldn’t really enjoy the open highway at fifty-five miles per hour. What the radar guns didn’t detect wouldn’t hurt anybody.  
  
“I don’t know. No guy ever asked me out,” Sam said thoughtfully.  
  
“That’s not much of an answer.”  
  
“I really haven’t thought much about it. I mean, I didn’t do much dating in High School, and then there was college, and then there was Jess. Not a lot of room for experimentation in between all of that.”  
  
Dean, who couldn’t have recalled all of his partners even if he had been given a notebook and unlimited time, was kind of appalled. “You’re the settling down kind then, huh?”  
  
Sam looked pointedly around the car. “Apparently not anymore. But... you know. Maybe.” Dean could see his slight smile out of the corner of his eye. “If you’d come up to me in a bar or at a party after a few drinks, and I wasn’t involved with someone... maybe.”  
  
“That’s real flattering, Sam,” Dean said dryly. “If you were horny, and smashed, and didn’t have anyone willing on hand, you might have tripped into bed with me. My ego is just eating that right up.”  
  
“Not smashed,” Sam corrected. “Just a little... loosened.”  
  
The phrasing brought up a whole round of visuals that Dean really didn’t need associated with his... brother.  
  
“That’s real special, Sam.”  
  
The smile faded. “I’m not ready.” The comment seemed out of nowhere.  
  
“Ready for what?” Dean blinked.  
  
“A relationship. Even casual sex. I’m not ready. I won’t be for a long time, you know?”  
  
“I thought we were talking about being brothers,” Dean said cautiously.  
  
“And I thought you said that didn’t change anything.”  
  
“It might change some things,” Dean was forced to admit.  
  
“Does it?” Sam challenged. "What does it  _really_  change, Dean? I barely know you! We’re practically strangers. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is -- our dad is dead, and he’s never going to be there to tell us  _why_ he arranged this stupid game of cloak and daggers. Bobby claims he doesn’t know, and he’s the only person alive who even knows we’re related. I like you, and I... trust you. Which might be more important for me now than anything else. So we’re brothers -- maybe we can just be  _partners_  instead. And later... if something else does happen then just... let it.” Sam crossed his arms and slouched back into the seat, staring resolutely out the window so that all Dean could see was dark hair and a hint of his profile.  
  
Dean concentrated on the miles passing under the wheels and the emptiness of a childhood colored by midnight motel rooms, his dad’s stern instruction, and the nagging feeling of something missing. About the secrets and lies that lay at the core of any family, and the way he had always had two dads. He thought about Sam’s infectious grin when he was happy, and the way sweat slicked his skin when... Yeah.  _Brotherly_ was not how Dean would categorize the primary emotions the memory inspired.  
  
Dean cleared his throat. “How about we just burn that bridge when we get there. Until then...”  
  
Sam smiled and pushed the tape into the deck.  
  
  


**END**

  
**I hope you enjoyed the story -- feedback is always appreciated!**

 

 **A/N : **I owe my deepest gratitude to elusive_life_77, who stayed up way past her bedtime to spot check when I finished this fic about twenty minutes after it was supposed to post. As usual. Also effusive thanks to cynassa, who did the grammar checking (a few days after posting -- because I am a slacker) Other people who came along for various sections and to whom I would also like to award gold stars and passionate kisses (from the donor of their choice, naturally) are caz2y5 (my fantastic artist!), heard_the_owl and Lucius Malfoy (yes, really.)


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